Timeslide
by ArtooC
Summary: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are scattered through history. A seventh-year fic.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **I wrote this HP fic a few years ago. It's posted at , but I could never figure out how to post to until very recently, so it wasn't posted here. At no point does it violate canon, although I did write it with a few prequels. It sort of varies from fluffy and pointless to dark and pointed and back again quite a bit. It's a crossover with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice (fluffy bit), John Hersey's The Wall (dark bit), Oliva Manning's Balkan and Levant Trilogies (silly bit), and a silly, frothy Venetian world of my own creation (bodice-ripper. well, sort of.). Mad props to my betas, the lovely Zsenya of the Sugar Quill, and my mom, who obviously has nothing better to do than to read Harry Potter fan fiction.

Disclaimer: Don't own a damn thing.

**PROLOGUE**

Things were too quiet in the old mansion. This unnatural silence, Wormtail knew, meant that his old master was thinking, and such occurrences were always followed by...unpleasantness. Usually, they required Wormtail to lose a limb or two, he mused a little bitterly, and then clamped down on those treacherous thoughts rapidly, lest You-Know-Who (even now he could not bring himself to pronounce the name) had learned the magic that his followers had long feared, and read his mind. Who could not have a treacherous thought now and again? It was impossible, ever the more so since loyalty to their Lord required such profound sacrifices. He shuddered as he thought of the tithe required of the Malfoys...and then sharply came down on his thoughts again. Better not to think, better just to follow orders, because not only did thinking bring those treasonous ideas, they brought memories, memories of friends long ago and one dark night when he had decided to betray them...in fact, it was a night not unlike tonight...

Fortunately for his sanity (always in question), he was cut off before he went down that alley once again. Unfortunately, this meant that Lord Voldemort had done thinking and was ready to act.

"Wormtail..." he mused, "Do you remember your history lessons?"

The servant shuddered inwardly. It always began like this, with a seemingly innocuous question, and then...

"N-not very much, my Lord. I'm sorry to say. B-but I could always find some old books, and study again, if that was your will, sir, I could--"

"Impertinent fool!" He was angry now. "Do you presume that Lord Voldemort has forgotten, even if you have? I was merely inquiring to make a point...yes..."

His voice trailed off quietly, as he thought out loud, "If wizards do not know their own history, then what can they know of Muggle history?" His eye fixed Wormtail with a glance.

"You see, Wormtail...even you will be able to riddle this one out...who has been there, all along, worrying at my flanks, stealing small victories against me?"

Uncertain whether this was a trick question, Wormtail stammered a bit with his answer. "H-Harry Potter, sir?"

Voldemort smiled beatifically. "Yes...I told you that you could do it, Wormtail. And who, every time, has aided him?"

At this, Wormtail had to think. The first time, Harry Potter had been protected by his mother, who had sacrificed herself for him. The second, Potter had been alone--but his friends had gotten him through to the final confrontation at great personal risk, and Dumbledore had saved him at the final moment, who had also saved him (albeit indirectly), as he had the third time Harry had run into danger.) The fourth time, Potter had been saved (by the skin of his neck) by several ghosts of his loved ones. The fifth, Sirius Black had been there to save his skin, and the sixth, his friends and that Elemental witch had killed the Lestrange woman in his defense...but all of those were different people, every time, so what could his Master mean?

Voldemort saw him trying to work it out, and laughed softly. "I'm afraid to say that you are deeply stupid, Wormtail...more so than I thought." Wormtail flinched, and his Master continued. Those who love him, you idiot...those who would die for him. Every time, and it seems that even when he is isolated and surrounded by ill-wishes, well-wishers turn up. So, what is the solution? How do we swat this deeply irritating fly?"

"Take--take away his friends?"

Again that laugh. "No, my tedious slave. Harry Potter--and Dumbledore--would never stand for our picking off his friends. No, we separate them all. Completely. And we put them all in positions where they would never be able to contact each other in,"--here, his voice grew ironic--"in a million years."

"How do we do that, Master?" said Wormtail, praying fervently that it did not involve any limb-threatening activities.

Smiling yet more evilly, Voldemort said something softly, so that Wormtail wasn't sure that he'd caught it. Or maybe he just wished he hadn't heard it, for if he had-

"But Master!" A protest rose unbidden to his lips. "No one knows how to summon the Temporals!"

The diabolical smile twisted. "No one, Wormtail?" the Dark Lord asked, almost gently. "No one?"

It was a beautiful sunny day, and all of them were happy to get out of the stuffy classroom (even Hermione) and into the large open field, whose grassy green contrasted brilliantly with the shocking deep blue of the sky. The weather could not have been more perfect, and even the fact that this was a lesson did not dim their excitement. How could it--for the first time in five lessons of furious note-taking, the three of them would be able to attempt Apparition for the first time. Ginny, perched on the fence, watched her two best friends and her brother wistfully, knowing that she would have to wait another year before she got to try it.

Harry tried--somewhat unsuccessfully--to contain his growing excitement. Mrs. Weasley had invited him and Hermione to the Burrow for their Apparition lessons, and they were staying for the whole summer before their seventh year at Hogwarts. At first, the notion of taking lessons during the summer had revolted both him and Ron, but today would make up for it. Always assuming--here he winced--that he didn't get splinched.

Their teacher, Professor Protosileus, launched into a short lecture, concluding with, "Right, to begin, I'll Apparate all of you from one end of this field to the other so that you can get the feel of it, and then you'll be doing it yourself." He had explained at the beginning of the course that while group Apparition was very difficult and generally illegal, fully trained Apparition instructors were allowed to use it as there was really no other way to teach practical Apparition. Hermione swallowed hard at the danger of it, but when Ron looked at her askance, she gave a brave little smile.

"Right then--everybody ready?" the Professor looked around at all of them. "Hold onto your nerves, then, and pay close attention so that you'll be able to do it yourself." Ginny came a little closer to see better, and Hermione pointed her wand at her forehead and said "Memorium". Harry and Ron grinned; in a typically Hermione gesture, she had cast a Memory Charm on herself so that she would be able to remember exactly what the experience felt like and how to recreate it.

There was no magic word in Apparition, but the four could feel him gathering Himself

--and the rest of them

--in with his magic

--to her alarm, Ginny felt herself getting pulled in with the rest of them

--they were getting pulled, very hard, very quickly

--and then there was a click

--the sound of something breaking

--it feels like the Spinning Teacups, Hermione thought dizzily

--it was impossible to keep track of anything now

--there was a high pitched cackling, and something ripped, and Ron could feel the others falling away from them

--he wanted to shout after them but he couldn't find his mouth to open it, it was as if all his body parts were drifting apart

--Protosileus shrieked silently as his students were wrested away from him

--and suddenly he fell out of the air, and he knew instantly, with the certainty of one who has Apparated thousands of times, that he was not in the right place.

He had landed on a grassy field, much like the field they had left, but somehow, subtly--different. He got up warily, wincing as he put pressure on his left ankle. As he stared off in all directions, trying to figure out where he'd been so unceremoniously dumped, he thanked his lucky stars that he'd fallen in an unpopulated area. That would be all he needed--now he had to find out where he was and where his students were, and what on earth had happened back there. A sound distracted him from his musings, but he blocked it out impatiently.

Very few things could wrest away members of a Group Apparition. A spirit could do it, and so could an Elemental, but these were usually friendly beings--or at least, human-indifferent beings. Somehow, however, one or several of them had taken a dislike to wizards. He frowned; Dumbledore would have to be told. That noise was building up, growing to a dull roar, but he continued to ignore it. What really bothered him was the feeling he'd had before his students had been ripped away from him. Apparition was not supposed to feel that out of control, that complete uncertainty. It was troubling.

The noise was too loud to ignore now, and he turned to inspect it, when he realized with the sudden dread of a rabbit caught in headlights what had been wrong with that Apparition, and what had taken his students. These revelations, however, were lost, as one of the screaming armies that were rushing towards each other caught him in its wake, and as a sword penetrated his belly, his last thought was that no one would know where he or his students had gone, save the cows that had been in the next field.


	2. Part the First: Hermione

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a thing.

**PART ONE: HERMIONE**

**Chapter One**

The only way she could adequately describe how her brain felt at the moment was to say that it was being simultaneously ripped apart and smashed together. She moaned, and turned in bed. One moment, she knew what was happening; she was Hermione Granger, future Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, girlfriend of Ron Weasley, best friend to Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley (and also the aforementioned Ron Weasley), and was in the middle of an Apparition lesson that had gone hideously wrong. The next moment, she remembered none of this, not even her own name, but she felt the absence of the knowledge heavily and recoiled from the pain of it. And then a split second later, all of her memories would land heavily in her brain, and she would grasp them greedily, only to have them whisked away in the next second.

How long this went on, she could not guess; she was only vaguely aware of her change of surroundings from hard stone floor to soft bed, only vaguely aware of soft voices talking about her, wondering things. She did not have the time to wonder where she was; she was too heavily involved in a battle for her memories. She could tell that she was winning.

After quite some time of combat, (and her unconscious self was no safer than her conscious self; her dreams were ridden with either vivid memories or tantalizing nothingness) she felt the knowledge settle in again and it clicked in place.

It would not leave again. Smiling with relief, she fell asleep.

When she woke, she did not immediately open her eyes. She heard soft voices discussing her predicament:

"I believe the worst is over, but she may need some time to recover, and her memory may be severely affected."

"Well, she may stay here for as long as she needs, of course." This voice was female, and worried. "She will recover, however?"

"I believe so. Give her this draught every four hours, and she may make a complete recovery." She heard the--she assumed--doctor take his leave, and lay there for a few minutes still, trying to decide on a course of action. Perhaps it would be best if she pretended that she did not remember much of anything. That way, if she seemed ignorant with this place's customs, it would not be suspicious--though she doubted that she would be unfamiliar with them, as this voice was clearly English. For all she knew, however, this was some stronghold of Voldemort's--appearances could be deceiving, after all. It was practically impossible to wrench a group Apparition apart, though, so she didn't know if it was really he who had done this. On the other hand, he seemed to be very good at achieving the practically impossible.

Making up her mind, she groaned and sat up, and then wished that she hadn't. Her head still hurt, quite a bit, from the battle that had taken place within her skull, and she thought wryly that she was going to have no trouble at all pretending to be convalescent.

A woman with honey-colored hair who was about to leave the room turned happily.

"You are awake! Do not try to get up, the doctor says that you are to stay in bed for another week."

Another week! When she could be figuring out how to get out of here and find the others! But while these thoughts went through her mind, she was noticing other things, uneasily: the old-fashioned decorations in the room, the long, white dress the woman was wearing, her subtle inflections, the fact that the doctor has prescribed some sort of miracle cure for amnesia (nonsense, of course)--something was very wrong here.

"How long have I been here?" she managed to croak out.

The woman smiled. "You have been here for little more than two weeks. Today is Saturday."

As Hermione gaped at the amount of time that had passed, the woman sat on her bed. "Can you remember anything? What happened to you?"

She pretended to search her memory. "Just...no, nothing. I can't....wait....I can't remember anything!" She turned desperate eyes on the woman. "Are you my sister, or something? All I remember is my name!"

"My name is Jane Bingley," the woman said gently, "I am not your sister, and I do not believe that we have ever met. You were found by the river and would not wake. We had hoped that you might provide more information upon your awakening; however, a name is enough at this juncture."

"H-Hermione. I can't remember my last name." Her mind was reeling. Two weeks--and why hadn't she been brought to a hospital? Suspicions were beginning to form...

"Ah--this is going to sound very odd, but--what year is it?"

The woman's eyebrows raised. "You do not remember that, even? The year is 1810 in the age of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Hermione's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she passed out again.

This time, the room was empty, and she attempted to muddle her way out of bed to look at the bookshelves. After a few steps, however, it became apparent that this was not going to happen, and she collapsed in a chair. Looking down at the white cotton nightdress that had been provided for her, she sighed in disbelief.

It was impossible to time travel. She'd been studying the whole thing this summer, because it was strikingly similar to Apparition--point in case, she thought wryly--and while it was both fascinating and theoretically possible, it was practically impossible. To time travel, one had to summon a Temporal--a kind of elemental--and persuade it to take you to another time and place. The Temporals were incredibly powerful, and could do almost anything, but required a human life-force to transport humans--therefore, one could time-travel, but one would almost certainly end up dead when one got to one's destination. Unless, group of people. Wait a minute, though...

Voldemort had many followers, and still punished them constantly for being absent in his time of need. If he had forced someone to summon and then enslave a Temporal--possible, though difficult--he could use their life force to transport anyone he pleased.

Why transport the five of them, though? Pretty obvious, actually--here they were, separated, somewhere they couldn't even owl Dumbledore for help because he didn't exist, and probably in varying degrees of life-threatening danger, which the other three probably didn't even know about, with the possible exception of Harry. They didn't cover Muggle history at Hogwarts, but Hermione's favorite subject in her Muggle school had been history, and she knew that there were some very nasty things in it. She was clearly in a Muggle household here, and the others probably were as well. She wondered what they were making of it.

But wait! The others probably didn't even know that they were wizards--she'd had a problem with her memory when she'd arrived here, and she remembered the Memory Charm that she'd cast on herself to make her remember everything. That's probably what had happened while she was sick--a Forgetfullness Charm of Voldemort's had been trying to cancel out her own Memory Charm. She took a ridiculous amount of pride (given the circumstances) that her Charm had been the one to win.

This was even more alarming--not only were they separated, not only were they stuck in dangerous bits of history that three fourths of them didn't know about, not only did no one in their own time know where they'd gone (Wait, Ginny was watching the Apparition lesson, maybe...--but then she remembered, with a shock, that Ginny had been pulled into the Apparition accidentally.), but they had no memory of who and what they were.

But Hermione did. That was where Voldemort had goofed, that was where he'd messed up--he hadn't counted on her Memory Charm, and since she remembered exactly who she was, maybe she would be able to get the others and return to her time. She'd have to contact them to find out when they were...maybe through a Dream Calling? She wondered if she'd need her wand for that...

Her wand! Panicking, she shot out of bed and began to search the room for her clothes. Finding them in the wardrobe, she sighed with relief when her fingers touched her wand in the pocket of her jeans.

Suddenly realizing a pressing call of nature, she decided to search for the bathroom, hoping that they hadn't used chamber pots in 1810, and wishing that she could dredge up more memories of her ages-old history class on the subject. As she tottered out into the hallway, she accidentally came face to face with a man, and gave a short scream of surprise, as (it must be said) did he. When they'd both calmed down, she felt very embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "You startled me."

"Oh no, no, quite all right," he burbled, "You startled me as well. Allow me to introduce myself--I'm Charles Bingley."

She smiled as graciously as she could. "I'm Hermione. I'm afraid I can't remember much else, but I must thank you and your wife for your generous hospitality."

He grinned, and she decided that he reminded her a little bit of a teddy bear. "Oh, no trouble at all--things were getting a little dull, anyway!"

She winced, and smiled back. "I'm--ah, I'm afraid I'm not as strong as I thought I was--I should probably return to bed."

"Ah, yes of course--do you require assistance?"

"No, no--" she smiled painfully once more, "I should be all right."

"Very well then, Miss Hermione--I'll take my leave of you." He bowed slightly and moved away. Foiled, Hermione returned to her bedroom and looked under the bed, where she discovered--to her consternation--a chamber pot.

**Chapter Two**

Mrs Bingley--or Jane, as she had insisted on being called--proved to be one of those extremely tiresome people who found the good in everyone. In the subsequent weeks that Hermione spent in the Bingley household (she graduated from invalid to babysitter along the way) she grew to like Jane (and by extension her husband and children) but after a time around them, she began to feel distinctly unworthy. She knew that she was incredibly lucky to have been found by these people, as they'd given her a home "until you remember your past, and your real family is found--though we shall be sorry to see you go," Jane had told her. But sometimes, Jane managed to get on her nerves. No one was supposed to be that good! And now, Jane's sister and her husband, Mrs. and Mr. Darcy respectively, were coming to visit with their daughter, and Hermione shuddered at the thought of a household filled with extremely good people and another child to watch. There was to be a ball, as well, which was worrying as it meant that more of Hermione's precious time (spent working out the problem of the Dream Calling) would be needed to learn the customs and elaborate dances that she would need to know to avoid disgracing her hosts.

There was another problem. Dream Calling spells were tricky at best, but when working in different times, they were incredibly difficult and draining. She thought that she had it worked out, but would need a few more days until she could perform the thing solidly, and by that time, the Darcys would have arrived...she sighed, and flopped back onto her bed. She wished Ron were here. He would probably figure out a way to make the whole thing much more enjoyable (she wasn't sure how, but that wasn't the point) and also, she wouldn't have to worry about where he might be, and whether he was still alive or not--she put the thought firmly out of her head. He would be alive. There was simply no other option.

The dinner that night was lively. Hermione liked Mrs. Darcy immediately; she had a spark of humor (and mischief) in her brown eyes that made Hermione think that perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all. Her husband had proved to be tall, dark and aloof--very unlike the cherubic Bingley, but the two seemed to get on very well, and were soon discussing arcane business items that made no sense whatsoever to Hermione. Jane and Mrs. Darcy's sister, Kitty, was also present, having come with the Darcys, as was Mr. Darcy's sister Georgiana, and the Darcys' daughter, Penelope, who was a wonderful child, grave and curious.

After the dinner, the women withdrew to the sitting room, and began to chat.

"Hermione," began Mrs. Darcy, "I have heard that you do not know your past--is it true?"

She murmured that it was.

"And yet no one from this town knows you?"

"I am afraid not, Mrs. Darcy. But--I am beginning to recall a very few things--faces, first names, and the like." Mrs. Darcy laughed, a rippling sound.

"Oh, do call me Lizzy. Even after six years of marriage, Mrs. Darcy is unfamiliar to me," she grinned at Hermione.

Hermione grinned back. "All right. I understand."

"So," Kitty said, "What is a pretty girl of your age doing without admirers?" Hermione looked at Kitty, who could not be much older than herself, with dislike.

"Who says I have no admirers?"

"Oh?" Jane's eyes flickered with interest. "Who?"

Put on the spot, Hermione stumbled. "Ah--well, you know, I cannot really remember, but I think I might have had an...agreement...with somebody."

"How do you know if you can't remember?" asked Georgiana with curiousity.

"Well, I...I cannot quite....I remember his face," she said hopelessly.

"What does he look like, then?" Kitty demanded.

Completely entangled now, Hermione gave up. "Well, he is tall..."

"Ooh!" Kitty giggled. "Tall, dark and handsome?"

"Kitty," Jane said admonishingly.

"Yes, do be quiet, Kitty," said Lizzy, leaning forward.

"Well, no, actually," said Hermione, encouraged now. "He's got red hair, and quite a lot of freckles, and brown eyes, and a sort of a long nose...." Her voice trailed off unhappily. "And I miss him. But I cannot remember his name!" she hastened to say.

The women looked at each other.

"Well," said Lizzy, "It appears that you must regain your memory. Or we will be required to find every tall, red-haired freckled man in England!" They giggled. As Hermione rose to go to bed, she looked back.

"Thank you, Lizzy."

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hermione cursed herself as she struggled with her hair, which characteristically refused to stay put. Why, oh why, did I agree to go to this stupid ball thing? I'll only fall over my feet and forget the dances and be a wallflower and embarass Jane and Lizzy. She accidentally yanked her hair harder than she'd meant to, and cried out, "Oww!"

Lizzy came in. "Are you all right, Hermione?"

"Yes," Hermione sulked, "I am just having a little trouble with...well, with all of it, actually," she said, gesturing at the dress lying on the bed and the pearls that were supposed to go into her hair.

"Oh, dear," Lizzy said, noting the mess that Hermione had made of her hair. "Let me."

"Do you remember the dance steps we taught you this afternoon?" she asked.

"Y-yes. Mostly. Sort of."

Lizzy smiled reassuringly through the mirror. "Do not be worried. You dance very well. But if you do not wish to dance, it is not required."

Hermione looked anxiously back. "Really?"

"Of course. My mother always forced all of us to dance with all the rich young men--not that I minded, as I love to dance, but she was always very unsubtle about the whole thing. I apologize if this hurts, but it's necessary," she said, twisting Hermione's hair up.

"Is that," said Hermione, wincing, "how you met Mr. Darcy?"

Lizzy dimpled. "At a ball? Yes. Dancing? No."

"Why didn't you dance?"

"He," she put a pin into Hermione's hair, "was insufferably rude, and didn't ask me, that is why."

Hermione's eyes widened. "So why did you marry him?"

"That is a very long story for another time."

"Oh." Subdued, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror. "Thank you, Lizzy. It looks beautiful. So do you, by the way."

"Thank you," she smiled. "Can you recall any other things about that young man of yours?"

"No..." But she really wanted to talk to someone about Ron, so she changed her mind. "Yes. A little. I remember--I remember that we've known each other for a very long time. And that we fight a lot, but not about serious things. Well, not usually, anyway."

"Hm," said Lizzy, but her eyes were sparkling. "Well," she said, bustling out of the room, "It sounds like the beginning of a very good marriage."

The ball, she hated to admit, had been lovely. She'd even danced a few times, overcoming her terror of the excruciatingly stylised dance steps and joining in, dancing once with Bingley, and once with Darcy. Darcy was a very good dancer, and watching him dance with Lizzy was breathtaking. They moved very well together, suggesting that they had danced this dance many times before, and Hermione thought about what Lizzy had told her earlier.

Tonight was the big night for Hermione, however, because she'd decided to try the Dream Calling. As she relaxed backwards into bed, she closed her eyes and cleared her mind of everything but the people she wanted to gather--Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Professor Protosileus. For a setting, she picked a grassy field much like the one they'd Apparated from. As she drifted off into tense sleep, she felt the dream forming around her...

They were all sitting on a field, and she looked around tensely to see that of all of them, only the Professor was missing. She did not stop to think of the implications of this, and merely hurried to get the explanations and Memory Charms out before she let the dream collapse. She could already feel it tugging at the corners of her mind.

"Hi," she said, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"

"What--what happened?" Ron said. "I couldn't remember anything..." Oh, it was so nice to hear his voice again...

"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry chimed in. "'Mione, what's going on?"

She smiled, but the effort hurt. Doing anything hurt, so she tried to force the words out as quickly as she could. "Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"

"Like Professor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.

Good, Ginny. Smart girl, she thought. "Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."

"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"

"Remember when I put that Memory Charm on myself? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" Harry said, alarmed, "I've only been away for a few days!"

Ginny and Ron began to speak at this, but Hermione was too close to blacking out to register what they were saying apart from Ron's last words.

"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous. I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining!" What she really needed to know, though, was when and where the others were. Without that, she couldn't figure out a way to get them back. "What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" she asked.

"I'm in Venice," Ginny said, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."

"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."

"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly.

Oh, no. "Harry," Hermione said with alarm, "You're not in the Jewish ghetto, are you?"

"Um...yes?"

"That's really dangerous! What month are you?"

He paused. "May. May first, currently." No. No, no, no--they liquidated the ghetto in May, I remember it from the history class in my old school ... He has to remember that, he has to...

"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning of May 1943?"

"No...should I?" Now he was getting worried. Well, good. "Yes! I," but as she was about to continue, she felt a lurch in her stomach, and knew that the whole thing was about to dissolve. "--oh, damn." She'd let the swear word out without thinking. "Look, I can't hold this any longer. As soon as I figure out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time." I promise. "Just--remember!" And then everything went black.

**Chapter Three**

The stunt with the Dream Calling had cost Hermione another week--it knocked her out flat, and the doctor had to be called again, though he was clearly baffled by the illness.

Forced to spend another week in bed, Hermione spent the amount of time that she wasn't unconscious thinking.

Clearly, she had to get them out of where they were. Ron and Harry were both in extremely precarious positions--she swallowed as she remembered what the Nazis had done to Athens--and needed to be gotten out. Ginny's situation didn't seem quite as bad, but--Venice did manage to make itself the enemy of just about everyone, and if she weren't rescued she'd probably be married off fairly quickly anyway, which might be a fate worse than death.

Something had to be done. But what? She'd intended to ask the Professor, but he was clearly dead as he was unable to be summoned by the Dream Calling. Maybe he'd been killed immediately on entry into the past. It was possible. She was lucky she hadn't been dropped into a war zone herself--she supposed Voldemort's control over the Temporals wasn't as complete as he'd thought.

The Temporals. She'd have to summon one, and try to persuade it to take her to the other times without using up her life force. It was always possible--the fact that they were working against Voldemort might help. And she knew Professor Silverleaf, an Elemental, which might make a difference as well. Of course, Professor Silverleaf wasn't very popular with the Elementals right now, as she'd brought them to the attention of Voldemort, but still...

Otherwise...she didn't want to consider it. She'd have to do the suicide run. It would be all right as long as she could hold out long enough to get them all home, and then...well, who knows? Perhaps she'd make it. But better her death than all four of theirs...right?

When she went downstairs, Georgiana was playing the piano. She smiled at her, and sat on the couch with a book she'd found in the bookshelves upstairs, one called, "Upon the Segregation of the Queen: A study of bees".

Jane and Lizzy came in, laughing, from picking flowers. "Hermione! You ought to be in bed!"

"I couldn't sleep. And I wanted to hear Georgiana." The girl at the piano blushed.

"Ah yes, she is marvelous. And on the harp, she is equally exquisite," Lizzy beamed.

Hermione half smiled back.

"Listen...Jane...I want to thank you and your family. For everything you've done for me."

Jane smiled gaily. "Of course, Hermione! How could I have done anything differently?"

"I--I know," the words seemed to be sticking in her throat for some reason, "but I just wanted to say it. Really, I'm truly grateful for it--all of it. I just wanted you to know."

Lizzy looked at her concernedly. "Are you all right, Hermione? Maybe you should lie down."

"No!" The vehemence of her reply surprised the others. "No. I'm just...I'll just go for a walk."

"All right," said Jane, "be careful!" directed as Hermione's back as she bolted from the room.

"Be careful..." she muttered to herself. "As careful as I can be."

She sat cross legged on the grass, isolated in the sunshine, and concentrated, as the book had told her. Her mind clearing, she firmly put the birdsong out of her head, the buzzing of the bees, the heavy smell of pollen. She stared straight ahead, not seeing anything. And eventually, something came.

It strongly resembled a small, wizened little man. At the same time, however, he was a great strapping young man, and a wailing small baby. She wasn't quite sure how he managed to handle all of this at once, but since as soon as she started thinking about this he started to disappear, she quickly put it out of her mind.

He took one look at her. "Yes?" he said coldly.

"I--" she said, "I need to ask you a favor."

"I don't give favors." It looked as if it might flit away.

"Wait, please!" It stopped and looked at her again.

"Something for something. I give no gifts."

"But please--we have something in common."

He was incredulous. "Oh?"

"We both hate Lord Voldemort."

His face closed.

"I do not know of Lord Voldemort."

Seeing her advantage, she pressed it. "Yes, you do. He's enslaved some of you, hasn't he? And he's stranded me here, and my friends other places. And if you help get me back, you'll be working against him, and I can tell the leaders in my time about the way he's treating your people, and they'll try to help you get them back."

He eyed her again. "Perhaps. I may help you for a time. But," he warned, "I may change my mind. Then, you will have to pay a price."

Hermione smiled, relieved. "All right. We'll see."

"What is the first time and place?"

She thought hard. Who to rescue first? Harry and Ron were in the most danger...but then, if there was anything they had plenty of, it was time, so that really wasn't an issue.

She made her decision. "Athens, 1943."

"Would you like to be dropped off near any particular person?" Once he was helping, he was really quite courteous.

"Yes. Ronald Weasley, please. He's probably the only temporally disturbed person in the area, so he should be easy to find."

"All right, then. Be ready."

And then there was that semi-familiar rushing in her stomach, and the world seemed to be spinning around her, and the next thing she knew, she was falling, falling...


	3. Part the Second: Ron

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a thing.

**PART TWO: RON**

Chapter One:

Harriet was tired that day. She was tired of quite a few things, actually, not the least of which was Guy's recent behavior. He could be the most frustrating man...sometimes she wanted to scream at him, to tell him everything that he was doing wrong, but he wouldn't understand. She was also tired of Charles. He was such a child! Always asking for more than she was prepared to give, and then throwing a fit when he didn't get his way. She was just about ready to give up on men completely.

Given her mood, then, it was a true example of her innate goodness that caused her to cry out and run to the side of a young man who had just been knocked into the street by a hurrying passerby.

"Are you all right?" she asked, helping him up. He shook his head a little.

"Yeah. Think so. Thanks."

"Are you British?" she asked curiously. She'd thought she knew all the British in Athens; perhaps she'd been wrong.

"Uhm...I guess so. To tell the truth, I can't remember much of anything."

"Much of anything about what?" she asked warily. She most emphatically did not want to be entangled in yet another game.

"About--about anything, really. Like..." A look of panic crossed his face. "Like my name. I can't remember my name. I just remember falling...and then I got up, and started walking around trying to figure everything out, and then I got knocked into the street, and now we're here. What's going on? Do you know me?"

This was too much. He couldn't possibly be feigning that confusion. And he was in trouble--she should help him, she knew that. Sighing as she realized that this would make Guy withdraw even more, she said, "No, I don't know you. But if you want, you can come to my house--we'll let you stay there until you get your memory back." His eyes widened in gratitude, and she led him down the street to the metro.

Guy actually came home for dinner that night.

"Hello, darling," he said as he kissed her on the cheek, "How was your day?"

"Well," she said, but she could tell he wasn't really listening. "I met someone today."

"Oh?" he said absently.

"Will you listen, please?" she snapped testily.

He looked at her, hurt, and she softened. "It's a boy. He's got amnesia, he doesn't know anything about who he is, and I thought we could give him a place to stay until he's cured. Heaven knows we've got the space."

His eyes lit up with interest, and he pushed away from the table. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs, sleeping."

"Is he English?"

"Yes."

And he would have been off, right then, had she not held him back. "Guy, he's sleeping. He's exhausted. Interrogate him when he's awake, okay? If you

were home for more than a few minutes at a time..."

Stricken, he rose and walked to her, rubbing her arms. "Darling, you know I'm busy. If I could be home more often, I would..."

"Yes, I know," she muttered mutinously, but she didn't really believe what she'd said. Guy would always busy. He would find some new and delightful acquaintance, and she would be out of his life again as usual, her own feelings inconsequential.

"I saw Ben Phipps today, darling," he continued, "He was quite happy about his role in the play."

"Bully for Ben Phipps." He didn't hear her.

"The thing is, the fellow playing Policeman 2 fell sick today. Got that flu that's been going around. And now there's no one to play the role. So this chap you found today really does seem like a blessing in disguise..."

"NO, Guy," she said ominously.

"Oh come on, Harriet, you don't even know if he wants to or not!"

She twitched her lip, and relented. "Fine. You can ask him. But later--" she said, exasperated, as he walked to the stairs, "when he's awake!"

So it was that the boy woke to see two pairs of eyes staring at him, one belonging to the dark, fragile-looking woman who'd helped him in the street, and the other belonging to a large, mild looking man with curly hair and thick glasses.

"Pleased to meet you," the man beamed at him nearsightedly, "I'm Guy Pringle. You've already met my wife?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah," he said, "Harriet, right?"

"Right. And you can't remember anything, how you might have gotten to Athens, who your parents are, that sort of thing?" He searched his memory.

"No, sir. 'Fraid not. I don't," he realized, "even know what today is."

"Tuesday, the sixth of April, 1943," Harriet chipped in.

"Thanks."

"Ah..." Guy seemed to be at a loss for words. Harriet rolled her eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Guy. Listen," this was directed at the occupant of the bed, "Guy is an English teacher here in Athens, and he's directing a play at the

moment, for the troops' entertainment. One of the actors fell sick, and he was wondering if you could take the part."

Guy looked at her, surprised. "Thank you, darling."

A little disoriented still, he said weakly, "Ah, sure--but, can I go back to sleep first?"

"Of course!" Harriet said, glaring at Guy. "I'll be here all night, if you need me."

As they walked out, he could hear them discussing, "So what name do I put on the program?"

"Easy," Harriet laughed, "Red Thin."

As their voices disappeared down the corrider, he stuck a hand in his pocket and brought out the long, thin, wooden stick he'd been examining earlier.

What on earth could it be?

Chapter Two:

Things settled down into a comfortable rhythm in the villa. Every day, Harriet took Red into the city on her way to work so that he could go to rehearsals, and then spent the rest of the day with him once they'd both finished for the day. In the evening, he'd be in the performance. He had a whopping three lines, but Guy was still fanatical about making sure that his character was firmly in place and convincing. He had a feeling that whatever he'd used to be, it wasn't an actor, as he was having difficulty finding character background for a policeman who only spoke a few times, and each time to say things like, "Cor!", "Blimey!", or "He's gotten away again, officer!" After each performance, he would go to a café with Guy and some of his friends from the pantomime. There they would sit until it got very late indeed, and he'd listen to Guy and Ben Phipps and some of the students talk about Marxist philosophy until they were blue--or perhaps the more appropriate color would be red?--in the face.

Occasionally they would ask for his opinion, and he'd give it willingly enough, but he had the uncomfortable notion that Ben Phipps didn't think much of it, though Guy was always tolerant.

The war was the first thing that he'd had to have explained to him, as he hadn't known anything about it. Apparently, there were Germans attempting to march on Athens. While Red found this slightly alarming, and there were a few other residents of Athens that obviously felt the same, most of the Greeks and English here seemed to be, if not ignoring it, laughing it off. There were Greek troops valiantly fighting the Germans at and beyond the border ("We are your only allies!" a tipsy Greek student had informed him, and Guy had confirmed it: the Greeks and the English were at this point the only opponents the Axis powers had, as the French had been conquered and the Americans were "being

isolationist bastards again," Ben Phipps said, disgusted.) and the thought that the Germans would arrive seemed far from anyone's mind--though Harriet did seem a little strained on occasion, which Guy seemed mostly to ignore.

That was another thing. The Pringles' marriage was a very strange creature, and Red was constantly trying to tiptoe around it. Harriet and Guy rarely saw each other, though they were usually perfectly congenial when they did. They seemed to be very different; Guy was beamingly accepting, and would befriend anyone, excusing their faults by whatever means necessary. Harriet was far more discriminating, and cynically looked at people as if already assuming that there was something wrong with them. At first, Red thought that he preferred Guy's point of view; after all, the man seemed to be a saint. But after he and Harriet spent more time together, sitting in cafés in the heady afternoon sun, he realized that Harriet's affection, far more reluctantly given, was to be prized much more highly; when she loved someone, she loved them totally, without restraint, with everything she had. Guy could never love this way.

He wouldn't have noticed this if she hadn't spelled it out for him. He'd been curious about Charles, a friend of Harriet's who always seemed to scowl when he saw that she was with Red, and who would duck out quickly whenever Harriet was with someone. He'd asked her about it one day:

"So who's this Charles bloke?" She flushed rather suddenly.

"He's...he's no one. A friend."

He raised an eyebrow. "Seems pretty jealous, for a friend."

Her lips twisted into something that attempted to be a smile. "Well, that's Charles." Suddenly, defiantly, "Guy doesn't mind."

Taken aback, Red said, "So he's more than just a friend?"

She rubbed her forehead. "Yes. No. I don't know. Not exactly. "

"Complicated? How can it be complicated?" She scowled at him.

"Now, there's proof that you don't have any memories left--if you had any faint scrap of remembrance of love, you'd know that there is no love that isn't complicated."

"You love Charles?" Wonderful. All he needed was to get involved in some scandal.

"He loves me." She said this with an air of finality, but he wouldn't let her

get away with that.

"You didn't answer my question. Guy loves you, too."

"Oh, Guy loves everybody!" she said with exasperation. "Guy doesn't consider my feelings on any higher level than anyone else's...actually, he considers them less! He told me once that he considers me to be a part of himself, and therefore, my concerns are as his are: negligible. It's nothing to be loved by Guy. But Charles and I are very much alike." She put her head in her arms.

"But you don't love him. And you do love Guy. Right?" He was somewhat proud of his analysis, and so was hurt when she answered.

"Bloody lot of good that'll do me," she muttered, "Neither of us has the right to ask the other to change for them. We'd be miserable if we did."

Red shrugged. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

She smiled a little. "That's okay. Just let it be a warning to you--this is what happens when you marry someone three weeks after you meet them and then go off to Rumania with them a week after your marriage."

He widened his eyes. "Three weeks? That's it?"

"Yup."

"Wow." He contemplated this. Her words cut in on his thoughts.

"So...who's Myoni?"

He crumpled his forehead in confusion. "Who?"

"Myoni. You've been talking in your sleep, and last night you yelled it out quite a few times. Can you remember your dreams?"

He thought about it. "Nope. Come to think of it," he realized, "I haven't been able to remember any of my dreams, since I've been here. Do you think if I could, I might be able to figure something out about who I am?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Odd, though, not being able to remember any of them."

But that night, he had a dream that he would remember.

He was sitting comfortably in a field, with the sun beating against his back.

Mmm, he thought happily, Feels like I'm back at the Burrow. Then he paused, frowned, shook himself. Burrow...I'm Ron, that's my name...I'm a wizard...what happened?...'Mione! He'd only just noticed that his friends were sitting around him, Ginny and Harry looking

just as confused as he felt. 'Mione didn't look confused, though--she looked strained.

"Hi," she said, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let

me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"

A Memory Charm. So we don't forget again. Good thinking, 'Mione, he thought.

"What--what happened?" he asked. "I couldn't remember anything..."

"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry said, "Hermione, what's going on?"

'Mione gave a sort of a grimacing smile.

"Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"

"Like Professor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.

"Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."

"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, amazed, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"

"Remember when I put that Memory Charm on myself? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks." Ron looked at her sharply and noticed that she did indeed have circles under her eyes, as if she'd been ill.

"A few weeks!" Harry said incredulously, "I've only been away for a few days!"

Only days? Ron wondered, So why's he look so spooked?

"I've been away months," Ginny told him.

"Me too, about a month," Ron said, as he absently realized that this meant that technically his sister wasn't very much younger than he was anymore. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous," 'Mione added, "I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining! What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" she asked.

"I'm in Venice," Ginny told her, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."

"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."

"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly. A soldier? Cool! I have to be an actor...How come Harry always gets the cool stuff?

"Harry, you're not in the Jewish ghetto, are you?" 'Mione looked a little freaked.

"Um...yes?"

"That's really dangerous!" Ah. Maybe not so cool. I feel better. And then he instantly felt bad about his thoughts.

"What month are you?" 'Mione continued.

He paused for thought. "May. May first, currently."

"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning of May 1943?"

"No...should I?" Oh, no. He hoped that 'Mione was just blowing this out of proportion, and Harry wasn't in any very real danger.

"Yes! I--oh, damn." He looked at her in shock. 'Mione--swearing? He could be able to use this...but he forgot about his evil plan when the dream began to collapse around them. He was able, much to his amusement, to put his hand through one of the trees near them. "Look, I can't hold this any longer," 'Mione said, pointing out the obvious as usual, "As soon as I figure out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time. Just--remember!"

And he opened his eyes quickly in his bedroom, stilling his breathing and staring at the ceiling, his girlfriend's last words echoing in his mind.

Chapter Three:

He wasn't quite sure how to behave after that. Eventually, as he become familiar with the way things worked around the British Colony in Athens, he came up with an adequate enough cover story, and told Guy and Harriet that he'd started to remember things.

"My parents were living in Thessaloniki, and they didn't want me to be in any danger, so they sent me down here. I'd just gotten here, and I was looking for a hotel, but someone knocked me on the head, and I guess they took all my money. I'm awfully grateful for you to let me stay here, but if you want, I could always try to get back to Thessaloniki, since it seems that the Germans won't get there." It was an artful little speech, and he was rather proud of it.

"Well," Harriet said, with a worried look at Guy, "if you want to go back, we can't stop you. But you're welcome to stay here, and it's probaby safer. You could telegram them, and tell them that you're all right--they've probably been worried sick this past month!"

"Of course you're welcome here," Guy affirmed, "You're a much better Policeman 2 than Spiros was, and that more than pays for your keep!" Harriet threw him a Look, which he ignored.

"But," realized Guy, after Ron acquiesced happily, "we'll have to change the name on the program to your real name now. What is your real name?"

"Uh--Ron. Ron Weasley."

"W-E-A-S-L-E-Y?"

"Yeah." And with that, Guy bustled out of the house, leaving Harriet and Ron staring at each other.

"So..." said Harriet, beginning the washing up.

"Yeah, so..." said Ron, reflexively grabbing a drying rag.

She gave him a sideways glance. "So now do you remember why it's so complicated?"

He laughed unwillingly. "Yeah. Reckon so."

"Who's 'Mione?"

"My...my girlfriend, I guess you'd call her." It hurt to think about her, hurt to think that he might not see her again.

"Do you love her?" Her questions were definitely invasive--but then, he reasoned, he knew pretty much everything about her love life after the past month, the least he could do was return the favor.

"Yeah."

"How long have you been going out?" Damn, she was persistent.

"A few years...well, sort of...basically, yeah, a few years."

She let it drop.

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

He laughed shortly. "Do I! I have five brothers and one sister."

Her eyes widened. "Six siblings! How come your parents didn't send you all down to Athens?"

Damn. He'd forgotten about his cover story. Better think something up, quick.

"They...they're all older than me. I'm the baby," he lied fluently, "so they

always panic about me. It's not so bad, but it gets annoying."

"I guess it would," she said, absorbing herself in scrubbing the pot, and Ron

remembered that her parents had divorced--and neither had wanted her. She'd been brought up by an old aunt who hadn't particularly wanted her either, and hadn't had many--if any--friends, due to her discriminatory attitude towards people. Suddenly, he felt sorry for her. She was stuck in the middle of a war because of a husband who didn't pay any attention to her, and the only one who did love her--Charles--was far too jealous and demanding for her to ever love

him.

She decided that he'd closed off. When he hadn't had his memory, he'd been very vulnerable, very young, very innocent, (Like Sasha was? her mind whispered.) and had spent endless hours listening to her problems or Guy's theories, or...whatever. But now, he seemed older, more...well, more of what

she remembered a seventeen-year-old boy to be like. Which, she supposed, he was, so that was only proper and fitting. But still...for awhile, she'd actually been able to hold a conversation with a teenaged boy, and he'd been supportive and given good advice. And now he was back to being a teenaged boy.

She sighed. It was all very strange.

She wondered about his girlfriend. Did she live in Thessaloniki? What had their parting been like? Had he cried? She supposed not. Teenagers--boys,

anyway--hated to show their feelings. So probably not. How did he feel now that he might never see her again? She knew that he was worried for her, or scared--almost every night now, he had nightmares. She'd wake up (while Guy snored at her side) to him screaming her name, as well as some others--Harry, Ginny, Neville, Charlie. She supposed those were his brothers and sisters--although they might have been friends. The British Colony was small in Thessaloniki, however, so she doubted it.

Every morning he would stumble down to breakfast, pale and wild-eyed, and mindlessly eat the cereal in front of him. Guy, disapproving, noted that his

concentration had gone in rehearsal. He seemed restless, never at ease. She worried about him. Occasionally, he didn't show up at their usual café, and would return later that night, mumbling something about needing to "walk around". For a month, it went on like this, and she worried more.

Until something happened.

It was a typical day, pretty much. Harriet and Ron were sitting at the usual café, watching the passerbys. Chatting had basically been suspended; Ron made a

poor conversationalist these days. So as Harriet sat there and struggled internally with what she was going to do about Charles, it surprised her when Ron gave a start that brought him out of his lethargy, and then jumped out of his seat and ran into the street.

"'Mione!" he called, and the next thing she knew, he was hugging someone, hard. After a few minutes, he led her over to the café, and pointed her to a seat.

"Sit. Now." And when the waiter came obligingly over, he said, "Ena kafe, parakalw. Sketo."

"Ron," Harriet said curiously, "who's this?"

"It's 'Mione," he said, beaming with happiness. The girl, Harriet observed, who had curly brown hair and only came up to about Ron's shoulder, was tired and drawn. I would be too, if I'd just come from Thessaloniki."

"Pleased to meet you, 'Mione, I'm Harriet Pringle," Harriet said warmly, reaching over to shake the girl's hand. "We've been letting Ron stay in our house for the past few months while he's here--you'd be welcome there as well. Unless you've already got accommodations?"

'Mione smiled weakly. "Pleased to meet you as well. It's wonderful that you've let Ron stay with you, and thanks for your offer, but I do have accommodation."

"Oh? Which hotel are you staying at?"

"The--ah, I'm sorry, I can't remember. I remember how to get there, but my mind's so jumbled from travelling. I'm sorry."

"That's all right," Harriet said, and would have gone on, had she not seen the urgent looks passing between Ron and 'Mione. She assumed that they wanted to be alone (Dolt, she told herself, of course they want to be alone. How could they not?) and began to speak again. "I...I've got to go into work again this afternoon, Ron. I'll see you at the pantomime this evening?"

"All--all right then, yeah," he said, twisting a little in his seat. Was that--guilt?--that she saw in his eyes?

"Goodbye then, 'Mione. I hope to see you again."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Pringle, it was very nice to meet you," 'Mione said obediently, and Harriet got up and walked away. As she walked, she saw Charles. He raised an eyebrow at her, and jerked his head towards his hotel. She thought for a moment, and then shook her head at him sadly. She loved Guy too much.

When the waiter finally reappeared with a tiny cup of black coffee, Ron

murmured, "Eucaristw," and pressed it into Hermione's hand.

"'You figured it out, then?" he asked her excitedly. "How to summon and hold a Temporal?" When she nodded wearily, he grinned proudly. "Knew you would."

Unwillingly, she smiled back. "I missed you," she told him, squeezing his hand.

"I missed you too..." Seeing a look of extreme exhaustion pass across her

face, he furrowed his brows in concern. "Are you all right? There's nothing dangerous about this spell you're casting, is there? I mean, nothing you can't handle, right?"

Her eyes flew open. "No, no, of course not! It's just...well, it's difficult

to summon the Temporal, and he's a bit flighty...so I have to hold him. It's

nothing too serious."

"Hm," he said, but the worried look did not pass from his face. "So, where were you, anyway? You never said."

"I was in England in the early nineteenth century, in some prestigious mansion

or something...it was really interesting, actually, to get to live through part of history. I should've taken notes," she realized with disappointment, and he laughed.

"My 'Mione. No, you shouldn't've. That would have made you certifiably insane, which would send you to a hospital, and then I wouldn't get to see you anymore!"

She made a face at him. "Typical Ron, always slacking off."

He raised his eyebrows. "Don't I have the right to slack off?"

She laughed. "Yes, but you're not allowed to distract me from studying just so you can have company in your decadence!"

He had a devilish grin on his face now. "And am I so...distracting?"

She blushed. "You know what I meant."

"No, no, I don't think I did," he said innocently. "I think you should tell

me."

Bright red now, she mumbled, "Yes, Ron, you can be very distracting sometimes."

He grinned with triumph. "Nice to know."

"Like right now," she muttered, "when I want to strangle you. That's very distracting."

They both laughed. He was suddenly very, very glad to see her again.

"Well, I shouldn't get too...distracting..." he leered, "or you won't be able to steer us home right. Shall we go pick up the others?"

She stopped laughing, the tired look returning to her face, but she covered it up in a moment. He'd seen it, though, and was instantly suspicious again.

"'Mione, you're sure there's nothing dangerous about this...?"

"I'm sure, Ron!" She was impatient. "Stop hovering, and pay the waiter so that we can get out of here."

"Fine, fine," he said, still suspicious, and got out some drachmas to put on the table as they left.

"Harry first," said Hermione, "because I'm the most worried about him."

"Hermione," Ron asked curiously, "what did happen in the Warsaw Ghetto in May of 1943?"

She looked at him bleakly. "Ron," she said, "You probably don't want to know."


	4. Part the Third: Harry

**Author's Note**: This chapter is what gets me the PG-13 rating, folks. Darkness ahead (though nothing I didn't steal from the excellent novel by John Hersey entitled _The Wall_. I would like to say in advance that I don't want anybody to be offended, or hurt by this chapter, or anything like that. Lord knows I'm not a fanatical Zionist, but Rachel (one of the characters) is, and she's fairly aggressive about it. So, in case there should be any pro-Palestinian people (or just anti-Israeli, or anti-Zionists) out there, these are not necessarily my political views, and please don't jump down my throat.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own a thing.

**PART THREE: HARRY**

Chapter One

The first thing he noticed was that where it had once been blue and sunny, it was now dark, and the pavement that came rushing up to meet his cheek was cold and wet. He lay there for a moment, stunned, unable to think or move. The logical questions eventually became apparent to him, and he began to wonder (still without getting up), where was he? Somewhere across the world, obviously, or there was no reason for there to be a difference in the daylight...unless there was it was a very bad storm, or, maybe...but who knew? With a sudden shock, he realized that he wasn't quite sure what his name was. He knew what it was, he must, but as he reached for it, for the familiar sounds of it, it slipped away, and he was unable to catch a f irm grasp on it. Panicking, he attempted to remember other things--where he was from, who his parents were, who his friends were, what exactly he had been doing five minutes ago--but it was all slipping away, so quickly and subtly that he could actually think that the knowledge was still there, just...not. Gone, all of it, and within the next few minutes, it was as if his life had begun with that fall on the pavement, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd just fallen off of a roof and lost his memory. For a few more moments, he just lay there, marveling at the complete erasure of his life.

Then, a sound began to penetrate the fog surrounding his mind. It was a tinkling, exquisite music played on an instrument that he did not know. It played a tune that he felt he should recognize, but somehow could not, and he lay there transfixed at the sound of it.

The music cut off abruptly as there were shouts (In German, he realized wildly, Oh, help.) and the sound of running jackboots on a wet pavement. He realized suddenly that if he did not get up the shouters would find him, and he had a hunch that that would not be a good thing.

So, heaving himself painfully up from the pavement, he began to run, somewhat hampered by the pain in his side from hitting the pavement. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to continue on his own, but luckily, a hand shot out of the shadows, and a hoarse voice whispered, "Amkho?"

"What?" he stammered out, uncomprehending.

"What, is he English!" And then, in English, "Come. Quickly."

Given little choice, he followed.

Rachel Apt sighed heavily, and rested her head on her arms. She would much rather be sleeping right now than reviewing the depressing ratio of Resistance ammunition vs. projected Nazi ammunition, but she couldn't help it--the figures needed to be known, the fighters needed to be informed, the strategies needed to be made. For the fifth time that hour she glanced at her watch. Dolek was still out with his concertina, irritating the Germans--though she knew that he knew the secret ways of the ghetto more than anyone, and that he always managed to escape unscathed, she still worried. They hadn't told anyone yet about that night after Noach's reading, or the days that had followed--she blushed slightly, and firmly returned to her reading, wincing as Rutka's baby let out a screech and she shushed him.

It was a half hour later when Dolek returned to the bunker, and when he did, he was not alone. Feeling some slight trepidation, Rachel looked up to see a slight boy of maybe seventeen with untidy black hair and green eyes. She had never seen him before--a fact which, while it might have seemed unremarkable to the casual observer, was quite remarkable indeed given that the occupants of the ghetto were by this time so few that everybody knew everybody, whether they wanted to or not. In any case, the boy looked harmless enough, though she was racking her brains to try and figure out where he'd come from.

"Rochelle," Dolek said, "I found him in the street. He did not know the password, but he was running from the soldiers."

She looked at him, slightly incredulously, and then focused on the boy.

"Where do you come from? What is your name?" she asked him, but his face remained blank, though somewhat confused and a little frightened.

"He doesn't speak Yiddish," Dolek informed her, "Or Polish, or German. I think he might be English."

She struggled to bring up some of her English from the back of her brain, where it had been relegated as a result of its relative irrelevance. Finally, she haltingly brought out:

"Are you English?"

The boy's face relaxed into a smile and he began babbling away in profound relief.

"Wait!" She lifted a hand, half laughing. "My English no good. I don't understand."

A disappointed "oh" came from the boy, who became subdued.

"What is your name?" she asked.

A look of frustration flickered across his face. "I don't know," he said, "I can't remember anything." As she raised her eyebrows, he continued, picking up speed until he was incomprehensible once more. Again, she told him to wait, and then went to get Noach.

Noach was sitting writing when she found him (Typical, she thought, wryly), but he looked up when she came in.

"Yes, Rachel?"

"Noach," she said, "Dolek found a boy tonight, in the street running from the Germans. No one knows where he came from, he seems to have amnesia, and he onlyspeaks English."

Noach's eyes widened slightly behind his thick glasses, and he rose wearily from behind his table. "And, as I am the only one here who really speaks English, you came to get me."

"I'm sorry, Noach, truly," she apologized, "but my English is terrible, and Dolek can speak it but can't understand barely anything."

The dried-up little man smiled, and squeezed her hand. "It's all right, Rachel. It'll make for a nice change of pace to see another face."

He was very confused. The man who'd grabbed his wrist, instead of taking him directly to safety, had led him through an immensely confusing set of passages and what his nose suspected were sewers, all winding around themselves. He was sure a few times that he was going in a giant loop, and he hoped fervently that his companion, who was carrying a small piano-like instrument under one arm, knew where he was going. When they finally emerged in a small, underground bunker common room, he assumed by the clatter of noise and warmth that this was their final destination.

Now, he was trying to come to grips with his new knowledge--one, he knew something about himself: he was English. Two, he had somehow appeared in a war zone where nobody really spoke English except for an exceptionally ugly girl whose broken English was fairly good, but who couldn't understand anything he said, and whose admittedly beautiful eyes had widened in dismay when he'd attempted to explain himself. Now, she had told him to wait, and he was doing as he was told, while trying to come to grips with the notion of coming to rest in a war zone (or at least a country under some sort of dictatorship) where no one spoke any English. All in all, he concluded, not the optimum circumstances for an amnesia patient.

The ugly girl was coming back with an equally ugly man, who looked a little bit like a dried-up rodent and whose eyes were nearly invisible behind his thick glasses. Glasses. He reached up to his face and realized that he was wearing glasses. Something else I know about myself: I wear glasses. Well, you've got to start somewhere, and suddenly, he had to fight down a completely inappropriate giggle.

The man looked at him seriously. "My name is Noach Levinson," he said in-oh joy--English, "and I speak a little English. Rachel tells me that you do not know who you are?"

Relieved at the chance to explain himself, he began a long string of confused babble that began with "Yes, I can't remember anything, and I don't know where I am, and I just appeared..." and trailed off to "and I have no idea what's going on!" Belatedly, he added, "Thank you for saving me from those guards."

Noach smiled. "You're welcome." He said something to the large man that had brought him safely to the bunker, and the man laughed and said something. "Dolek tells you not to be a fool, what else could he do in those circumstances?"

He let a small smile escape his lips. "But--where am I? What is happening?"

"Ah. Yes. Well. I have some notes on the matter, a sort of history, that you may read in depth later, but to begin with, you are in Rachel's bunker. This is Rachel, Rachel Apt, the leader of this squadron of resistance fighters" put a period after "fighters" and either capitalize "Here" or use -- to set off that phrase here he indicated the ugly girl, "this is Dolek Berson," this was the large man who had rescued him, "and, as I said, I am Noach Levinson. Do you know the year?"

"Uh..." he racked his brains for a moment, and then was embarrassed to say, "No, I don't."

"The year is 1943, the month is April, the date is the twenty-ninth, and you are in the Jewish Ghetto in Warsaw, Poland." He smiled ironically. "Welcome."

Chapter two:

Israel put the papers down with a sigh. Israel. It didn't sound right to him, he didn't think it was his real name, but as Rachel said, they needed to call him something, and it was good to be reminded of what they were all fighting for. Confusingly enough, it was also the name of Rutka and Mordecai's baby. Rutka and Mordecai had been introduced to him last night, along with Halinka. Mordecai and Halinka were Rachel's brother and sister, and the differences between them all were striking. Mordecai and Halinka were both beautiful--Mordecai had large brown eyes and a sensitive sort of face, and Halinka had a doll's prettiness. Rachel, on the other hand, had a very ugly face indeed--she had an enormous nose, thin lips, and no chin to speak of, though her eyes were huge and luminous, and there was nothing (he'd noticed) wrong with her figure, though it was, as everyone's was, starved for food. There were other differences as well: while Mordeca i and Halinka both seemed somewhat spoiled, Rachel seemed to be a great well of calm and strength, something that was much needed in the ghetto.

He'd read Noach's notes now; it had taken him all night, but for some reason he thought that it was the right thing to do. He'd been right; the situation here was worse than he'd thought. He didn't think that even his most tortured imagination could come up with a peril more dire.

A few years ago, certain areas of Warsaw were blocked off from the rest by a wall, and the Jews were confined within them for "quarantine purposes". The Jewish doctors informed the Germans that the supposed typhoid risk of large groups of Jews had nothing to do with race, that typhoid was indiscriminate, and that putting five hundred thousand people into a confined space would not help, but it was to no effect; the new conquerors instituted the ghetto.

And then the deportations had started. The ghetto's own government, the Judenrat, was forced to organize the Jews into deportation. The Germans wanted ten thousand Jews deported every day. While they did not get their wish, an obscene amount of people were loaded onto cattle cars and sent off to God-knows-where. Only certain papers could prevent one from being deported; Noach and Berson both had some, and had been able to procure some for their friends. At one point, the quarreling political factions within the ghetto had solved their disputes long enough to send a lawyer named Slonim out to discover what was happening to the deported Jews. He returned with the news of Treblinka: a camp designed to slaughter Jews and other humans. They weren't sure exactly went on within the camp, but Slonim had smelled burning flesh, and seen a column of greasy black smoke rising from within its barbed wire. During this time, Berson's wife had been deported, and he hadn't known of it until he returned home that day. She was very ill at the time, and most likely hadn't made it to the camp.

Then had come the Kettle. The Germans had both reduced the area of the ghetto (proclaiming that anyone found outside the new ghetto would be shot) and increased regulations on deportations at the same time, causing a hellish three days when no one had anywhere to live and one could be deported if one were found on the street. During this time, the bunker had been founded behind the fire in a bakery.

After the Kettle, the different political factions finally put aside their differences for good, and founded fighting units. To her (and no one else's) immense surprise, Rachel had been nominated as a group leader, and Rachel's Group had been founded. The resistance had begun.

A few days ago, open war had broken out in the ghetto. It was still going on, as a matter of fact, and no one knew how it would end. The Germans were being pushed back, they were winning, but the fact remained that there were still many more Germans than there were Jews.

All of this was in Noach's notes, painfully taken and well written, with deep biographies of all of his acquaintances and the dry detachment of the historian that he was. Underneath that dried-up exterior was a warm (if shy), compassionate man.

These people were amazing, Israel realized, and then remembered that he didn't have the foggiest notion what people were normally like, and therefore all people could be like this for all he knew. He pulled the thin, wooden stick out of his pocket, and stared at it. Its mystery was the only clue towards his past, and it wasn't much of a clue. Sighing, he let his head thump forward against the desk. He was very tired...but it was important to stay awake. He might remember something. There was something important, he knew there was, it was nagging at him more every second.

To ease the nagging, he picked up one of Noach's many books, a book of painting, and began to leaf through it. As the page fell open to a painting of a red-haired girl, he gave a huge yawn. When he'd got his mouth under control again, he looked down at the painting, and felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. He knew this girl. He glanced at the title of the painting quickly, hoping that it would have some clue, but the words--Portrait of a Young Venetian Woman--meant nothing to him. That face, though...

He stared at it for a long time, at the quick, intelligent look in the girl's--no, woman's-- warm brown eyes, at the angle of her head to her neck, at her wavy red hair, and all the time he wondered, What does this woman mean to me? Why, out of everything, do I recognize her? Perhaps he studied this painting in school...but it wasn't the painting he recognized. The Renaissance dress she was wearing wasn't familiar to him at all. But those eyes...

Noach came into the room. "Israel," he said kindly, "You should try to get some sleep."

Israel turned to Noach wildly. "Noach," he said, "What is this painting? I recognize this girl!"

Confused, Noach picked up the book. "This is by Albrecht Durer...maybe you studied it in school?"

Israel was doubtful. "Maybe..."

Noach smiled. "Well, at least you seem to be getting your memory back. Go to sleep; Rachel will take you to Yitzhok this evening.

He remembered the name Yitzhok from his day's reading. Yitzhok was the name of the somewhat extremist leader of the resistance movement. He gulped, and Noach laughed and led him to bunk down for a few hours rest.

Yitzhok had proved to be every bit as intimidating as Noach had described him. A muscular young man who glowered at Israel, he fired questions at him that Rachel had to field and answer as Noach translated for the poor boy.

"But is he Jewish?" Yitzhok was asking now.

"We don't know, Yitzhok, but does it really matter?" Rachel was getting angry now. "He's in trouble, that's all that matters. He's not one of them, we're bound to protect him. He could help us."

"How?" the leader sneered, "By showing the Germans exactly where your bunker--and mine, too, at this point--is? Yeah, big help, thanks, Rachel."

Rachel scowled at him. "He was running away from the soldiers. He was terrified. I know it doesn't sound likely, but he might've been some kid overlooked by the both of us who got knocked on the head and his parents got killed. It's entirely possible that there's no one left who knows who he is."

"And it's entirely possible that he's a Nazi spy! Listen: if he's not Jewish, how can we trust him?"

"Well, how do we know that he's Jewish or not?" Instantly, Rachel regretted her words, for of course there was a simple procedure for determining the Jewishness of a male. Sighing, she turned her back while Yitzhok told Noach to tell Israel to put his pants down. Apprehensively, he complied.

"Hah!" Yitzhok exclaimed in triumph, "Not Jewish!"

After Israel had pulled his pants back up, confused, Rachel turned around and continued arguing. "So, not Jewish, not trustworthy? Fine state we're in, then, if it's the Jews against the world. I can't see us winning that! The British and the Americans are against the Germans--if he's one of them, he's on our side."

"Yes, but if he's a German spy, then he's on their side!"

"He doesn't speak German, Yitzhok! Dolek tried, and he didn't understand."

"Maybe he was pretending."

"Oh, come off it, Yitzhok."

In the meantime, Noach turned to Israel. "Do you speak German, Israel?"

"Um..." he thought hard. "No. I don't think so, anyway. I might know a few words, like, achtung, or, mein Gott, but I don't think I can say anything else."

"His accent in German is pretty bad," Noach told the other two, "I don't think he's German."

"Unless he's faking it," posited Yitzhok.

"Oh, come ON, Yitzhok!" Rachel cried, and the argument would have continued for quite awhile had Noach not sneezed at that particular moment.

"Gesundheit," said Israel, automatically, and Rachel and Noach burst out laughing. Reluctantly, Yitzhok smiled as well.

"Yitzhok," Rachel said, wiping her eyes, "Listen to that accent. You can barely recognize the word. And it was automatic; it couldn't have been faked. Come on."

"Well...all right," Yitzhok agreed grudgingly, "But he works in your group. You found him, you take care of him."

"All right."

And then suddenly, the conversation turned to other affairs, and Noach told a somewhat worried Israel that it was all right, that he could stay, and Israel breathed a large sigh of relief.

That night, he had a dream.

He was sitting on a field, in the dream, and he knew who he was and what he was, and who the people around him were: his dearest friends in the world.

Ron and Ginny looked just as confused as he felt, but Hermione was sitting there expectantly with a sort of strained expression on her face.

"Hi," she said, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"

"What--what happened?" Ron said. "I couldn't remember anything..."

"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry chimed in. "Hermione, what's going on?"

Hermione smiled, and again, Harry noticed the strain. "Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"

"Like Professor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.

"Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."

"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"

"Remember when I put that memory charm on me? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" Harry said with alarm, "I've only been away for a few days!"

Ginny and Ron looked at him strangely.

"I've been away months," Ginny informed him, and Ron said that he'd been away for about a month, too.

"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous. I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining! What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" she asked.

"I'm in Venice," Ginny said, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."

"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."

"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly.

"Harry," Hermione said with alarm, "You're not in the Jewish ghetto, are you?"

"Um...yes?"

"That's really dangerous! What month are you?"

He had to think for a minute. "May. May first, currently."

"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning of May 1943?"

"No...should I?" Now he was getting worried.

"Yes! I--oh, damn." They were surprised to hear Hermione swear, but it made sense when the dream around them began to waver. "Look, I can't hold this any longer. As soon as I figure out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time. Just--remember!"

As Harry awoke, that last word echoed in his head.

Chapter Three:

Things had actually gotten harder after that, as the knowledge of who and what he was had been counterbalanced by the knowledge of who and what he was. He knew his name, he knew his friends, but he also knew that he was even more out of place than he had thought, and that very soon something very terrible was going to happen to the people that he had come to regard as family in the short time that he'd been here.

Rachel, Berson, Mordecai, Rutka, Halinka...and of course, Noach, who was so self-effacing that he would expect to be listed last in any list. The worst part was that he could help them now. He knew how to use magic, he knew that it could help them, but he couldn't use it in front of Muggles--he couldn't alter history. The thought of the ensuing paradox made his head hurt.

With a translation charm and what he'd been picking up, he'd begun to be pretty fluent in Yiddish in a surprisingly short time. He'd told them that his memory was coming back, that his name was Harry and he was from England, that his parents were dead, but the rest kept eluding him. Noach said that it the amnesia was probably more repression of his parents' deaths than anything else, and Harry did nothing to contradict him. Sometimes people forgot, though, and called him Israel. For example:

Rachel had been out that day, conferring with Yitzhok and the other leaders. When she'd returned to the bunker, she'd flopped down on the floor, exhausted, and watched him entertaining some of the children with "magic" tricks. They weren't really children, anymore, he could tell--there was a haunted look in their eyes, a very adult knowingness and cynicism. A few of the adults had crowded around to watch as well.

Rachel smiled tiredly. "Usually Dolek can manage to boost morale, but you seem to be just as good at it. Where did you learn such tricks?"

Harry gave her a cheeky grin. "A good magician never tells his secrets."

She grinned back. "Well then, why don't you tell me?"

"Oh ha very ha," he snorted, and then suddenly they were both laughing hysterically, gales of glee, while the others in the bunker stared. Somewhere in the middle of the storm, Rachel began to cry, and Harry did not notice for several minutes until she began hiccuping.

"Rachel," he stared, "What's the matter?"

"Oh, God...nothing," she said, "Nothing new, at least. I don't understand anything that's going on."

When he still looked at her, she elaborated. "It's hopeless. We're running out of ammunition, and they're bringing in new recruits. The Polish Resistance wants nothing to do with us. We're all going to die, and Yitzhok insists that we die fighting."

"I thought you said..."

"Oh, I know what I said. I believe it, too--'hope above all else, better to die fighting than running,' but sometimes...I sent my little brother away from this, Israel--oh, I'm sorry, Harry."

"That's okay," he reassured her, "People just seem to keep making that mistake." She gave a shaky smile. "That's because they want a reminder of what we're fighting for. Harry, when you turned up, lost, confused, unable to understand a damn thing that was going on, with everyone dead set against you, you reminded us of ourselves, the way Jews have felt for centuries...and naming you Israel gave us hope, hope for a country where we didn't have to worry about," she waved her hands inadequately, "all this. When we find that you're an English guy named Harry Potter, it's a little disappointing. Some of us keep reverting to Israel, because it's more comforting. But we have no right to make you into something that you're not."

Touched, he said, "That's all right, really. I'm honored."

She smiled again. "We have the baby, anyway. Baby Israel." Her expression changed. "That's the main reason why I'm not sure if Yitzhok's strategy is good. Stand and fight--all very good when it's yourself making the decision, but what about the children? What about those of us that aren't in a fighting unit, that can't fight, for whatever reason? We have no right to make that decision for them. I sent my little brother away when it got too bad because I didn't have papers for myself and my family. Halinka got hers from Stefan--that was her husband, before he died--and Mordecai worked for the Judenrat, so he got some, but I didn't have any and neither did David, so I sent David away. He's walking to Zion right now...I don't know if he'll make it or not. He was very young. But it's better than staying here to be shot like fish in a barrel!"

This last came out very fast and loud, as she got carried away with herself. He wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Did you--did you talk about this with Berson, at all?" He alone knew that Berson and Rachel were more than simply friends and comrades, having come across them embracing in an obscure part of the bunker, and she knew that he knew. "Oh, Dolek feels the same way that I do--I know that he does. We've talked about it. But it's convincing Yitzhok that's the hard part. The man is that stubborn..." Her voice trailed off. "But I shouldn't be worrying you with these things. I just....needed someone to talk to, while Noach and Dolek are away."

"That's okay," he smiled, "I'm happy to listen--and I agree, by the way." But she seemed to have put any thought of it out of her head, and turned to him with a firm expression on her face. "No, right now we're going to talk about you--no one seems to have paid much attention to you recently! Can you remember anything else? What was that girl in the painting?"

He'd forgotten that. "Oh--I can remember her now. I think she was my friend's little sister, or something. I guess that girl in the painting just looked like her."

Rachel smiled. "She's pretty."

That surprised him. "Yeah," he said, consideringly, "yeah, I reckon she is."

"Were you attracted to her?" The question shocked him with its abruptness, and she could tell. "We don't have any time for pretensions or coyness here. Were you?"

He had to think about it. "I dunno...she liked me, for a long time, so I was always kind of scared of her--every time I'd talk to her she'd turn bright red and run out of the room, that sort of thing."

"But that was when she was little, right? The girl in that picture didn't look the sort to blush and run away!"

"Yeah, that stopped, I guess--we got to be friends, and I reckon we forgot about the earlier stuff, or pretended we did."

"No sense in ruining a perfectly good friendship," Rachel said smilingly, and Harry agreed.

"Yes, exactly! Who needs it? But..."

"But you've been dreaming about her now."

He stared at her. "How did you know?"

"You talk in your sleep, idiot." She grinned at him. "Her name's Ginny, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, then. Sounds like you have a crush on her."

"But," he protested, "it doesn't matter, I might never see her again!"

Her expression changed from teasing to somber. "You're right. You might not. In fact, you probably won't."

"So, there's nothing I can do about it..." For some reason this thought disturbed him, even though he knew that he probably would see her again--always assuming that Hermione figured out how to get him back. "I'm sorry, Harry..." Rachel was sympathetic. "Sometimes I wish that we could see as clearly in normal everyday life as we do in situations like this one. It's when you realize how little time left you have that you begin to take advantage of what you do have, and realize what's been there all along." With a parting remark of "I'll see you later, Harry, I've got to find Mordecai," she got up and walked away, leaving Harry with his somewhat chaotic thoughts.

So what if he did have a crush on Ginny? It would pass, sure...starting from his fourth year, Harry had had plenty of crushes, one of which had even turned into a girlfriend for a short time, but they all passed eventually...all he had to do was wait it out.

But he found himself suddenly not wanting to wait it out, and he had a sudden disdain for the word "crush". It sounded...childish, flighty, unconvincing. It sounded nothing like the powerful feeling that was roiling through his belly right about now. Could it be love? He scoffed at the thought. He was too young to be in love. That's what starry-eyed teenagers always think, and then the relationship is over within a month. Except for Ron and Hermione, he reminded himself, But they're the incredibly lucky exception to the rule. No, this couldn't be love, it simply couldn't. Sure, in the past year he'd come to rely even more heavily on Ginny's friendship than before, as Ron and Hermione's had deepened and left Harry on his own on Saturday nights. Friday nights, and Hogsmeade trips, were sacred and belonged to "the gang"--Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and whoever else wanted to join in--but Saturday night had become "date night" for Ron and Hermione, and Harry hadn't wanted to intrude. So, he'd often found himself with Ginny, and the two had grown close. But that didn't mean that he was in love with her.

Or did it? A nasty voice inside his head reminded him of something someone had once told him--Love, true love--none of your infatuation stuff--is merely the deepest friendship with physical attraction thrown in. It might start with the infatuation, but unless the friendship is there it'll never last, and it's the relationships based on the friendship that'll outlast 'em all. Think about it. He'd filed away the idea for future reference, but had never come back to it. Ginny was one of his best friends. And he did, he had to admit, find her attractive. So, according to the definition, he was in love with her. What to do with this information? He automatically shied away from telling her. She'd had a crush on him when they were kids, sure, but according to all of the signs, that crush had disappeared. No, she had no crush on him anymore--and in any case, he wasn't sure that he wanted her to have one on him. If he wanted anything, it was for her to feel the same about him as he did about her--but that was impossible. Well, he thought, Maybe merely improbable.

And he smiled.

It was later that day when Berson woke him from a dream-ridden sleep.

"Harry," he said, "We're going."

"What?" Harry mumbled groggily, reaching for his glasses.

"Tonight. We talked Yitzhok into it. We'll go out through the sewers, and there'll be a truck waiting for us. We're leaving the ghetto."

The next days were a blur for Harry. He vaguely remember getting out, getting into the sewers, waiting beneath the manhole for hours, vaguely remembered the truck was late, that Noach suddenly had become very obsessed with time, and kept asking to see Berson's watch, that Noach talked to everyone, taking notes all the time, recording everything they said and did. He vaguely remembered that Rutka's baby, which was teething, had started to wail, and that Yitzhok had taken it and walked off into the night to silence it so that the people on the street above would not hear it and become suspicious, rocking it and crooning. He vaguely remembered that when baby Israel was returned to his mother, he was cold and blue and lifeless, and Mordecai had silenced his wife's muffled screams by pressing her against his chest, tears running down his own cheeks all the while, and Yitzhok had looked stolidly on.

He vaguely remember Berson giving Rachel a loving glance while he was talking to Noach, and the concertina--he knew the name of the instrument now--tucked beneath his big arm. He vaguely remembered that a truck came in the middle of daylight, beyond all expectations, and the mad rush that came when the people tried to get out of the sewer into the truck without the soldiers seeing them. Rachel had gone ahead to help people into the truck, and Dolek had stayed behind to make sure everyone got out of the sewer. He vaguely remembered being handed into the truck after Noach.

What he remembered very clearly, and would remember for the rest of his life, was the dread in the pit of his stomach when the soldier's whistle blew, and the driver of the truck quickly closed the back of the truck and jumped in behind the wheel to start driving quickly away. He remembered very clearly Rachel's scream, telling the driver to wait, that there were others. And behind them as the truck sped away, he heard the tinkling, exquisite music of a concertina, a sharp retort, and then nothing, as Rachel's legs gave way within the truck and she slumped to the ground, sobbing. He found that his eyes were dry.

Later, they were in the woods, far from safe, but a lot closer than any of them had been in a long time. Rachel had recovered somewhat from her earlier outburst, and, though red-eyed, she was herself again, calm, comforting, and in control: everyone's Little Mother, the nickname that Berson had given her. Harry knew that the rest of them were planning to walk to Zion, and he was unsure as to what he would do about this, as perhaps Hermione could only find him if he stayed near the place that he'd appeared here. Just then, there was a popping sound in the air, and before he knew what was happening, two of his best friends in the world had appeared about ten feet above the ground, and were now in an undignified tumble among the tree roots.

"Ooof! Ron, get your foot off of my shoulder!"

"I would, if you would move your--owww!"

Involuntarily grinning with the happiness of seeing the two of them again, Harry nevertheless noticed with trepidation the stares of the escapees around them.

After they'd stood up and brushed themselves off, Ron and Hermione noticed them as well.

"Oh, dear," Hermione summed up accurately.

"Ah--Harry?" Rachel asked timidly, "Who's this?"

"Um. Yes." Harry decided that the best thing would be to ignore the fact that they'd just fallen out of thin air, and put a memory charm on Rachel and the others before he left. Besides, he'd wanted Rachel and Noach--and Berson, his mind said quietly--to meet his friends, and he might as well do the thing properly. "Assembled former citizens of the Warsaw ghetto, I present to you Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." Switching to English, he said, "Ron, Hermione, these are the people who've been taking care of me. That's Rachel Apt, and Noach Levinson, and Rutka and Mordecai, and Halinka..."

"Hang on," said Hermione, and then took out her wand and pointed it at her throat. "Lingua Franca" she said, and looked pointedly at Ron, who did the same. She then said, in fluent Yiddish, "It's so nice to meet you. We won't be long--we just came to get Harry. And,"--here she looked strained--"I'm so sorry. About everything." While the people around them stared, Ron pointed at them all, and said softly, "Obliviate".

"Come on, Harry," he said, "The Temporal's a bit flighty, and we don't want it to run away."

"But--I wanted to say goodbye--"

"It's all right, they won't mind--every minute 'Mione has to hold that thing, she gets a little tireder. We don't have much time."

"Oh, all right," he said, and the next thing he knew, he was running to a secluded spot of the forest, where Hermione began to wave her wand about and chant, exhaustion evident on her face.

"All right, everybody, hold on," she said grimly, and the world turned upside down again.


	5. Part the Fourth: Ginny

**Author's Note:** Um, Sophia's not a Mary Sue. Really, guys. Really. coughs nervously

**Disclaimer**: None of it belongs to me.

**PART FOUR: GINNY**

Chapter One:

When she opened her eyes, it was to see a pair of worried grey ones staring back into them.

"Uhh...hello?" she said.

The eyes seemed greatly less worried, and a voice--probably belonging to the same man as the eyes, she thought, yelled, "She's alive!" It struck her that there was something sort of...wrong...about the way he said it, and about the way she'd spoken as well, but she put it out of her mind. At the moment, she was too busy trying to figure out where she was, what had just happened, and--no, wait, who she was. Uh-oh.

"Who am I," she muttered, and the owner of the grey eyes looked alarmed.

"Your Highness...do you not know who I am?"

She stared at him, trying to place his face. "Um, no. Sorry. Where," as she realized that the surface she was lying on was rocking, "Where am I?"

"You are in Venice, my Lady! You have come home at last!"

"Uh...sorry? I'm afraid I don't remember anything." No, that wasn't true, she could vaguely recall falling from some great height, but that memory was cut off by the landing. She supposed she'd knocked her head on something or other, and lost her memory temporarily. Satisfied with her explanation, she sat up, and wished she hadn't. Her head hurt.

"Careful, my Lady! You have had a nasty shock!"

"Have I?" she wondered.

"Yes! Your ship sank...you are the only one who survived. We found you on the beach. But you are all right now, and we will take you to your father's house. He is very eager to see you, after all these years." All of this was said very fast, as if the man was afraid of punishment.

"My...my father?"

"Yes, my Lady! The Lord Giovanni di Carapaccio awaits your return with great anticipation...he has missed you! How did you find school?"

"Turned left at Greenland," she muttered with some humor, and then wondered where the quip had come from. She clearly wasn't herself--But then, she thought, how can I be, when I don't know who myself is?

"Listen," she said, "I think you've misunderstood me. I don't remember anything, I don't know who I am, or what my name is. I don't remember anything," she repeated, "a bout anything. All I can remember is falling."

The worried look had returned to the man's eyes. "The doctor will look at you, my Lady. You will recover, I'm sure."

"But--tell me my name, at least!" She was desperate. At least she could find that out.

"Beatrice, my Lady," the man--probably a servant?--said wonderingly, "You are the Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, returned from going to school in France these past ten years."

"Oh," she said, "I am?" And the servant nodded reassuringly.

After the gondola had bumped into the building, she'd been helped from it through the front door one of the palatial homes facing the Grand Canal. Once inside, she'd been whisked off by a maid frantic to clean her up and get some decent clothes on her--"These French fashions," she'd said, "whatever will they think of next." Beatrice--for she supposed that was her name--wistfully watched h er old clothes being taken away, presumably to be burnt, and only just managed to save the contents of her pockets, among which was a puzzling polished stick. After being thoroughly scrubbed and dressed in a sumptuous brocade gown, powdered and bejeweled, she was to be presented to her father in his study. She was a bit nervous, considering that she had no memory of him whatsoever. A servant went in before her, and announced in a loud voice, "The Lady Beatrice, my Lord!"

Supposing that was her cue, she walked in, to see a small, round man with fiery orange hair and a huge smile on his face.

"My Beatrice!" he said happily, "You've come home at last!"

"Yes, Father," she said, "But...I'm afraid that I don't remember anything. I'm sorry, sir."

His smile fell a little, crestfallen, and she hastened to say, "But it may come back to me. You do seem somewhat familiar."

Somewhat familiar! The words stung him, but he plastered his smile back onto his face.

"The doctor will soon set it right, Bea, and in any case, it's been years since we've seen each other. I suppose," he said dryly, "you will have to regale me with tales of school in France later, as you do not presently remember any of it. And it is my duty to inform you of the situation here.

"We are at present in a very precarious situation. Venice has much power, and is resented because of this--by the Church, by Firenze, by the Turks, and most especially by Milano. This is a dangerous time, therefore. I must tell you that you cannot trust anyone who is not a Venetian, I do not care what they say to you. All of them may be against us. You may see things here, in this study, which you do not understand. Do not mention them to others. Am I understood?"

"Y-yes, Father," she said, and his face relaxed.

"There is a ball tomorrow night. Your return will be announced, and you will be presented to the Doge. Catherine will be there--do you remember Catherine?" She had to shake her head. "Ah. You were friends when you were younger. Perhaps you may see her before the ball, in case you have forgotten any of the steps."

"That--that may be a good idea," she said, "Thank you, Father."

He smiled. "Bless you, child." As he sat down at her desk, she realized that it was a dismissal.

As she was about to be presented at the ball, she couldn't understand why she would have been friends with Catherine when she was younger. Unless she had been equally insufferable herself--it was always possible.

Catherine had introduced herself by looking her up and down coldly upon arrival in the di Carapaccio house, and saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry about the shipwreck--it would make me look awful for a week as well, I'm sure! So harrowing!"

Deep in her mind, Beatrice had thought, Grrr.

Later, though, after Beatrice had mastered all the modern dance steps in a surprisingly short time, Catherine had warmed up, and proved to be (as expected) shockingly superficial. She looked over the dresses that Beatrice was expected to

wear, tut-tutted, and told her firmly that she was wearing one of her own dresses that night at the ball.

"No one, but no one, wears that sort of thing any more. Completely out of date. You'll be the laughingstock of the ball."

"I--I will?" Bea had said timidly, and Catherine had laughed, a tinkling, silvery laugh.

"Oh, yes, darling. Now, you just pay attention to me, and everything'll be fine. Just follow my lead." She then proceeded to--rather disdainfully--give one of the maids a list of things to fetch from her father's house, and upon the maid's departure, said, "There're a lot of things you'll have to shape up, here, darling--the help, for one thing! They say the sign of a good servant is that you can't see them, and well, darling--the impudence of that maid!" And she shook her head in disbelief.

"But," Bea's brow furrowed, "all she did was ask you if you wanted the things now or later."

"Darling!" Catherine had looked at her incredulously, "Have you gone mad?" So Bea had remained quiet on the subject.

Now, waiting in the outside hall of the palace for the steward to announce her, Bea wished that Catherine was by her side. She might be a twit, but at least she knew what was going on, unlike Bea.

Suddenly, she heard her name being called, "Newly returned from France, the

Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, daughter of Lord Giovanni di Carapaccio!"

That's my cue, she thought grimly, and walked in.

She could feel the eyes on her as she progressed down the red carpet towards the Doge's throne. More, she could feel the eyes of the Doge, staring coldly at her from the other end of the room, which was seeming a mile long. Finally, she reached the throne, and swept down in the elegant curtsy that Catherine had taught her, remaining down until the Doge gave a curt nod, and she rose and moved off to one side. There. That was over. Now she only had to get through the rest of the ball, knowing that eyes were watching just to find a reason to discredit her. Catherine had explained this; that life in court was a constant struggle for supremacy. Bea didn't think it sounded particularly nice, but it seemed as though it was what she'd been born for. She could hear whispers as she walked though the hall-

"--shipwreck--"

"--only survivor--"

"--washed up on the beach--"

"--lost her memory--"

"--how romantic!"

She smiled a little, and decided to find Catherine, but when she did, Catherine turned her back on her, making Bea both confused and hurt. Even if she'd found Catherine to be a stupid prat, at the very least she could acknowledge her! But it seemed that no one was talking to her.

"Hi," piped up a voice behind her, "I'm Sophia di Capella." She turned around to see a short, stocky girl with black hair and grey eyes.

"I'm Beat rice," she said, smiling.

"I figured," Sophia said, laughing. "They say that you don't remember anything?"

Bea grimaced. "Not a thing. I go to see the doctor tomorrow."

"Oh. Well, I'd be happy to help you if you're having trouble or anything--shopping, directions, you name it!"

"Thanks," said Beatrice gratefully. Why couldn't Catherine have been like this?

"No problem." Sophia glared darkly at Catherine. "She," she said, "probably hasn't told you anything more than not to embarrass yourself--and herself by implication, since everyone knows your father asked her to teach you all the niceties of a ball."

"Basically," said Bea, thinking of the previous afternoon.

"But what everyone's waiting for is for him," and here she pointed out a dark-haired man on the other side of the dance floor, "to ask you to dance. He's the Lord Paulo di Brindisi, and he's the most powerful man besides the Doge, who doesn't dance, just sits there on the throne and glowers all the time."

Beatrice let out a small giggle, and Sophia threw her a conspiratorial glance. "I should warn you, though, if you take up with me, you may get a lot of ribbing. I'm not very popular--mainly because I say things like that!"

"I don't care!" said Bea, happy to obtain a friend.

The evening wore on, and suddenly, as the musicians struck up a slow tune, the dark-haired man that Sophia had pointed out came over and held out his hand for Bea's.

"The Lord Paulo di Brindisi," he murmured, bending to kiss her hand.

"Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio," she returned with a smile.

"Enchanted," he smirked, "May I have this dance?"

"But of course," she returned, feeling very sophisticated, and he led her onto the dance floor.

Afterwards, she decided that he was nothing special, he smelt of wine, and he leered at her the entire time, but when it was over, as though there had been some sort of signal--and she supposed there had--the other men at the ball were literally lined up to dance with her, and Catherine turned around with a benevolent smile on her face. She danced with the men, but her grudge against Catherine was not forgotten and the time that she spent not dancing was spent in deep conversation with Sophia. When she collapsed into bed, she had an invitation from Sophia to come visit her the next day, and an admirer's bright green eyes staying in her mind.

Maybe I'll get used to this place, she thought happily as she drifted off

to sleep.

Chapter Two:

A few months later, she couldn't remember why she'd felt so out of place here. Of course, the doctor hadn't been able to bring back her memory, and Catherine was still unforgiving about the snub she'd given her at that first ball, but Bea didn't really care. She had Sophia, and she had Mario, and that was all that mattered, after all.

Mario... She collapsed backwards onto her bed, a ridiculously goofy smile

on her face as she thought of him. With untidy black hair and green eyes, he'd stood out among her many admirers, and his humor had won her over quite early. She remembered the first time they'd seen each other--quite by accident--outside of a ball or social function. It had been after church, in San Marco Square. She'd just been admiring the architecture--it took her breath away--when a few children playing had rushed by her with such exuberance that she'd nearly fallen into the canal.& nbsp; What had saved her was a steady arm grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her back to safety.

"Oh," she'd said, looking up into his brilliant green eyes, "thank you!" He'd smiled, somewhat rakishly.

"My duty, Lady. Anytime you're about to fall into a canal, just call my name, and I'll be there in a second just to save such a beautiful lady as yourself."

"Oh," she said, spluttering with laughter, "I'm not beautiful."

The next look that he gave her was completely serious. "I beg to differ." As he walked away, he called out behind him, "I'll be seeing you around, Lady Beatrice."

And since then...she sighed happily. He'd been so attentive. Of course, Sophia didn't like him, but Sophia didn't like any of Catherine's friends. And Sophia could just be the teensiest bit judgmental sometimes. Mario was nothing like Catherine. He only went to Catherine's parties because their parents were frie nds--that was all. And because of him, Bea was getting invited to the parties as well--and she normally insisted that Sophia was invited as well. Sophia nearly always declined, which Bea thought very unsporting of her, but she said that she didn't mind if Bea went, so Bea did usually go. And now--she sighed deliciously. She thought she was in love. Those eyes... Sometimes, though, she woke up in the middle of the night, convinced that something was wrong with the whole thing, that

something was missing, that Mario was wrong, that he was lacking something. But those feelings were almost always gone by the morning, and she ascribed them to middle-of-the-night fears.

She heard the ringing of the church bell in the distance, and sat up with dismay. Was it that late? She would be late for her appointment with the painter, and who knows what he would say! Frantically, she jammed her feet back into her slipp ers, brushed off her maid, Maria, who attempted to fix her hair, and ran downstairs and to the front door, where a gondola awaited her. Jumping in and steadying herself, she gave instructions to the hotel where the painter was being lodged while he stayed in Venice.

When she arrived at the painter's she was somewhat unimpressed. She'd expected a workroom full of paint and easels, but instead there was only a dark green sitting room with slightly uncomfortable chairs. The painter--the famous Albrecht Durer from Germany!--spoke to her in heavily accented Italian, telling her to sit in the chair and hold still. He had seen her at a ball, and told her father that he wished to paint her as his first subject in Venice. Her father was much flattered, and today was the first appointment. She was so excited that she could barely keep still. He smiled, but his voice was strict. "You ar e to keep still, or I cannot sketch you correctly."

"Oh, very well," she said, and proceeded to clamp her hands down into her lap, though her eyes still laughed merrily, and she could not keep a half smile from her face. He sighed, and began to sketch.

He had been sketching for half an hour when his assistant came in.

"Are you not done yet?" he asked in German.

"This one will not sit still--she is lively, though she is beautiful." Durer replied.

"Why, thank you," Bea said, and stopped in surprise when she realized that she'd just spoken in German as well.

Durer looked at her incredulously. "You speak German?" he said, in that language.

"I suppose I do," she laughed, "You see, I cannot remember anything of my life before I came here. Perhaps I learned it at school."

"It is flawless," he told her, looking at her with new interest.

"Thank you," she blushed, and the session continued.

BR 

That night, she had a dream. She was in the middle of a field, with Harry and Hermione and Ron. Ron, my brother Ron, she realized with a shock, and my name is Ginny, not Beatrice. What's been happening?

"Hi," said Hermione, and Ginny noticed how strained she looked, "This is really hard, so it won't last that long. Just let me...here." She took out her wand, pointed it to each of their foreheads, and said, quite firmly, "Memorium"

"What--what happened?" Ron said. "I couldn't remember anything..."

"Yeah, neither could I..." Harry contributed, and as Ginny looked at his pale, drawn face, she felt a pang of guilt. "Hermione, what's going on?"

Hermione gave a sort of a grimacing smile. "Something--probably one of Voldemort's plans--pulled us apart during our group Apparition--and Ginny, too--and threw us back in time. He would have had to summon a kind of Elemental--"

"Like Pro fessor Silverleaf?" Ginny asked.

"Sort of, a Temporal, which is a different race of Elementals, with kind of different abilities. They can jump through time, and somehow he got them to drag us to different times."

"How do you know this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, "I've had no memory the entire time, I didn't even know I was a wizard!"

"Remember when I put that memory charm on me? Well, I guess it held my memory in place. All I know is that I knew exactly who and what I was, but I was sick for a few weeks." Of course, Ginny thought, That's why I can speak both Italian and German, I put the Lingua Franca charm on myself a few weeks ago when Hermione and I were trying to talk to those Spanish wizards.

"A few weeks!" Harry said incredulously, "I've only been away for a few days!"

A few days! Ginny thought with alarm, Where has he been to make him so

pale?

"I've been away months," she told him.

"Me too, about a month," Ron said.

"And I've been away about two months, too, but luckily I'm nowhere dangerous. I think that was a mistake on Voldemort's part--not that I'm complaining! What about the rest of you, when've you gone?" Hermione asked.

"I'm in Venice," Ginny told her, "in 1505. It's kind of neat, but I think there's about to be a war."

"I'm in Athens, in 1943," said Ron, "I'm staying with a nice British couple--they just kind of took me in, even though I was wandering the streets in a daze! There's a war where I am, too, though--everyone's wondering if the Germans are going to get to Athens or not, and whether or not they should pick up and get out of there."

Ginny felt a cold wash of worry for her brother's safety.

"Hey, you're kind of near me, then," Harry put in, "I'm in the same war, same year, but I'm in Warsaw, in the ghetto. They made me a soldier," he said, somewhat proudly. A soldier! He could get hurt...

"Harry," Hermione said with alarm, "You're not in the Jewish ghetto, are

you?"

"Um...yes?"

"That's really dangerous!" Oh, no, Ginny thought.

"What month are you?" Hermione continued.

He had to think for a minute. "May. May first, currently."

"Harry! Do you remember what happened in the Warsaw ghetto in the beginning

of May 1943?"

"No...should I?" Ginny was beginning to dread what Hermione would say

next.

"Yes! I--oh, damn." She was surprised to hear Hermione swear, but it made sense when the dream around them began to waver. "Look, I can't hold this any longer. As soon as I figu re out how to raise a Temporal I'm going to come and get you all, okay? And then we'll go back to our time. Just--remember!"

And Ginny sat bolt upright in bed, crying out, "Harry!"

Chapter Three:

She was Ginny Weasley, not Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, and her father was Arthur Weasley, and was tall and skinny, not short and fat, and she had six brothers, most of them insufferable (though she missed them terribly right now), and a wonderful, wonderful mother, and her best friends were Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and not Sophia and Mario...

That must have been why it'd been strange, with Mario. He looked so much like Harry--of course she would be attracted to him.

On the other hand, was it so wrong to be going out with Mario? She had no obligation to Harry--he'd never given her the slightest indication that he thought of her as anything more than a friend. And Mario loved her--or at least, it seemed lik e it. And maybe she could love Mario, too--he was certainly attractive!

What was she thinking? How could she go on about this? She didn't belong here, none of this was right, none of it was real.

But, said a niggling little thought, it is real. For three months, you have been Lady Beatrice di Carapaccio, and everything you did during that time has been real, and your life here is as real as it ever was--you just have a past, now. "Oh, dammit," she sighed into her pillow, and wished that Hermione would hurry up about finding a Temporal so that she could get out of there. Things just got very confusing.

She got out of the gondola with a certain amount of trepidation, and took Mario's arm gratefully, firmly ignoring the butterflies in her stomach at his nearness. This party threatened to be as lavish as any of the ones that Catherine had given, and Ginny felt somewhat nervou s at her first party with her memory intact. Not that she'd told anyone she'd acquired her memory--just a few mentions that she was beginning to remember classes in her old school, and so forth. No one knew who she really was, and she would have to be careful not to give herself away.

As soon as the music began, Mario whirled her away in a dance. It was amazing, he didn't let her go once that night, and, what with the wine that she'd been drinking, by the end of it, it had all turned into one big, shiny blur. She giggled, gossiped with Bella (one of Catherine's friends), and always, Mario was not far away. She danced every dance with him, and when she was not dancing, she would lift her eyes and blush to see him watching her steadily from across the room.

After some time of being there, she found his arm around her waist, and he murmured into her ear, "It's a bit warm in here, don't you think?" She agreed , and he began to lead her upstairs. She pulled back, half laughing, half serious.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There's a balcony upstairs that's not as...heavily populated," he said, eyeing the balcony on their floor disdainfully--those who had been especially drunk had been put out there so as not to damage the beautiful mosaic floor. Ginny smiled and followed him.

"How do you know this house so well?"

"I've been here quite a bit," he answered absently, showed her to the balcony. She stared down at the water, pondering her life, trying to figure out what she was going to do. Behind her, Mario smiled.

"What are you thinking, my Lady?" "Mm." She knew that she couldn't tell him the truth. "It's beautiful out tonight."

"You're beautiful."

She turned to him and smiled. "Don't be silly. I'm nothing special."

"I beg to differ. Beatrice--I--" He was obviously having difficulty.

"What?" she said, wondering if she wanted to hear what was coming next or not.

"Oh, God, Beatrice," he groaned, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her.

It felt very nice, and even though she knew that she should pull away, the wine clouded her brain, and the embrace was allowed to intensify. As he began to attempt to unlace her bodice, however, she came back to herself.

"No!" she said, pulling away, "Mario, no!" He looked at her. She leaned heavily against the cold stone at her back, and sighed. "No. This isn't right."

"Beatrice...what is wrong? I thought you wanted this."

"No. No, I'm sorry, Mario, but I don't. I thought I wanted it, too..."

His eyes lit up with hope. "Bu t I don't. I want something else...I'm in love with someone else, someone you remind me of a little. And it wouldn't be right."

"Someone else?" he said jealously, "Who?"

"From my school," she said quietly, "I'm starting to remember. That's why I pulled away. I'm sorry, Mario."

"Go," he said coldly, turning his back to her.

"Mario--" She reached out to touch his arm.

"Go, Beatrice!" he snapped. "Leave me."

She sighed. "Very well."

She was sluggish for the next few days, going dully through her daily routine. Mindful of the fact that Hermione would probably come and get her, and unsure of how long Hermione would need to recoup between time hops, she told her "father" that she'd written to some friends from her school and invited them to come and stay; she wanted them to meet her "family".

Now, she was sitting in Sophia's chamber, thoroughly conf used.

"It's a good thing you didn't let Mario go ahead," said Sophia, "You could have gotten pregnant."

Oh, God. She hadn't even thought of that. "You're right," she told Sophia, "you're right. But...I still want to be friends with him, and he won't even talk to me."

Sophia shrugged. "You probably hurt his pride. No big loss--I always said he was an ass."

"You never did like him. But you have to admit, he can be a nice guy."

"Sure, when he wants something! But," said Sophia slyly, changing the subject, "who's this other guy that you're in love with?"

"In love with!" Ginny exclaimed, "When did I ever say I was in love with him?"

"Pardon me, it was just too, too obvious," Sophia said sarcastically. Ginny gave in.

"There's a boy from my school who I'm...yeah, I suppose I'm in love with him. He's one of my best friends. I used to be totally infatuated with him, and ran ar ound making a complete fool of myself, but I got over that...this is something different."

"Hm!" said Sophia with a twinkle in her eye, "So what are you going to do?"

"What can I do?" Ginny said hopelessly, "I don't want to lose his friendship! What if he gets all freaked out and never speaks to me again?"

"Oh, be realistic, how could he do that?" Sophia snapped back at her. "Anyone can see you're gorgeous."

"He can't," Ginny said glumly.

"Oh, shut it," said Sophia, and the conversation might have degenerated from there, had not there been a loud popping sound, and three people falling out of thin air into Sophia's chamber.

"Um..." said Hermione, sitting up and smiling weakly at Sophia, "Hi!"


	6. Part the Fifth: All Together Now

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything, including the title of this bit, which belongs to the Beatles.

**PART FIVE: ALL TOGETHER NOW**

Chapter One:

There was silence, and then Hermione turned to Harry, pointed at his throat, and said, "Lingua Franca There, now you can understand everything."

Too happy to speak, Ginny threw her arms around Harry, and to her surprise, he hugged her back.

"HEY, Gin...how you doing?"

She pulled back and smiled up at him. "I was so worried! After what Hermione said...I thought you'd be killed." She noticed a sudden grim look on his face, and said, softly, "What's wrong?" He shook his head.

"Later."

She then attacked Ron. "Ron! Are you all right? Did you get caught by the war?" He grinned and returned her hug.

"Nah, 'Mione came and got me before it did. You worry too much. How about you--is there a war on here?"

"Not yet," broke in Sophia, "but there may be a war if two men are discovered in my chamber. Do you think that you might be a little quieter? And, in the course of being quieter, do you think that you could explain to me WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"

"Ah. Yes, of course," said Ginny, "Sophia, these are my friends from school, Hermione, Ron, and Harry. This is my friend here, Sophia di Capella."

"Any friend of Ginny's," Harry said with a broad smile on his face, sticking out his hand.

As Sophia's eyes narrowed, and as the words "who's Ginny" began to form on her lips, there was a sudden sharp cry from Ron.

"'Mione!" They turned to see Hermione slide noiselessly to the floor in a faint, caught in the nick of time by Ron.

"It was too much for her," he said worriedly. "She'll need to rest for awhile before she can do it again."

"Do what?" Ginny asked concernedly.

"Summon a Temporal, and persuade it to do what she wants. It's practically impossible...luckily, she read the theoretical papers this summer," he said, shaking his head--though whether it was in consternation or admiration was impossible to say.

A throat was cleared behind them, and the three wizards left standing turned to see Sophia, tapping her foot.

"Ahem."

In the end, they had to tell her everything. The wizarding world, Voldemort, the future--all of it. After she'd seen them falling from the sky, the only other option would have been a Memory Charm, which was actually no longer an option due to the fact that they presently needed Sophia's help--she was the only one who really knew how Venice worked, and the right lies to tell about how the three had gotten there. She gave them suitable clothing and smuggled them out of her house and to the harbor. From there, she told them to catch a gondola to the di Carapaccio mansion, and say that the ship had gotten in early, and that Hermione had collapsed from exhaustion on the trip. Which isn't so far from the truth, Ron thought grimly.

Upon arrival at the di Carapaccio house, Ginny ushered them in and made much of them.

"Oh, my dear friends, I'm so glad you could come!" she exclaimed loudly, eyeing her "father's" study door. "You must come and meet my father--but what is wrong with poor Hermione?"

"Ah--" said Ron rather self-consciously, "The trip exhausted her. I'm afraid she must be put to bed."

"Oh, by all means!" Ginny said, beckoning to a maid, "Maria, show Lord d'Oiseau where Lady Hermione's chamber is."

"Of course, my Lady," Maria murmured, bobbing her head, "This way, my Lord." She led Ron off to one side.

"Now, my Lord de Poter, you must meet my father," Ginny announced loudly. "Of course, my Lady..." He trailed off in confusion as he realized that he didn't know Ginny's name here.

"Beatrice," she mouthed at him.

"Beatrice! Of course, my Lady Beatrice!" he yelled quickly. "I would be delighted and honored to meet your cherished father!"

"Come then, and greet him," Ginny continued at the top of her lungs, at which point the steward stuck his head out of the study door irritably.

"Lord di Carapaccio says to come in already and stop making all of this racket."

He eyed Harry's shoes. "And don't tread mud on the carpet."

Sheepishly, the two of them went in.

"Father," said Ginny, "This is the Lord Harold de Poter, the brother of my dearest friend at school, the Lady Hermione de Poter."

"And where is the esteemed lady?"

"She was taken ill on the journey. Her affianced--" At this, Harry coughed loudly to cover his amusement, and Ginny glared at him. "Ronald d'Oiseau is helping her to her quarters so that she may rest, but I know that she and he are both most eager to see you."

"Hmmmph. Well, welcome, Lord de Poter," Lord Carapaccio said grumpily. Harry took a deep breath. Now or never.

"I am most grateful for your kindest hospitality," he said, in the most florid tones he could come up with, "I hope that someday I may be able to repay you and your sweet daughter."

"Hmmmph," said Lord Carapaccio again, but it was friendlier this time. "Well, it was our pleasure, of course. You'll be coming to the ball tomorrow night? You'll have to be presented, of course--I'll inform the Doge."

"Ball?" Harry said, with the slight stirrings of panic beginning to form in his mind.

"Of course he'll come, Father, don't be silly," Ginny trilled, "Well, I'll just show him to his quarters now, bye bye!" And she pushed him out of the door.

Maria disappeared as Ron lay Hermione down gently on her bed, noting the elegance of the quarters. He smirked as he thought of Ginny living here. Must have been quite a change. He wondered what his quarters looked like. Hermione moaned and stirred a little in her sleep, and Ron's full attention returned to her as he sat down on her bed and gazed at her.

"Oh, 'Mione," he said quietly, "What am I going to do with you. You seem determined to work yourself into the ground sometimes...well, I won't let you!"

As it seemed that she would not wake, he continued. "That last month, after the dream, when I knew who I was and remembered you, but didn't know if I'd ever see you again--I think it was the hardest month I've ever spent. I dreamt about you every night--but then, I did that before, I just never remembered the dreams. I think Harriet thought I was going insane." He chuckled. "The thought of never seeing you again...well, let's just say it'll be awhile before I let you out of my sight." His tone grew lighter then. "You're going to have to start taking better care of yourself, though. The woman I love isn't allowed to inadvertently kill herself through overwork."

He noticed that she was waking, then, and as she chuckled and then yawned, she smiled up at him. "Okay."

He widened his eyes in mock alarm. "Wait a second. Did you just agree with me? Say it again, so I can savor this moment for ever."

She laughed outright then, and grabbed his hand, pulling it to her lips. "I said okay. And I love you, too."

He no longer tried to contain his smile. "Well, this is a red-letter day, then," he said, leaning down and kissing her on the nose and then the lips.

At that point, Ginny and Harry's voices came into earshot, and it became apparent that they were arguing about something.

"Look, it would be really suspicious if you'd said no!"

"No to what?" Ron inquired, dreading the answer. If Harry didn't want to do it, he probably didn't want to do it either.

Harry looked at them exasperatedly.

"We're going to a ball tomorrow night."

Chapter Two:

"I feel silly," said Ron, grumbling as he straightened his dress coat.

"Oh, yes, and I feel perfectly sensible in this frippery," snapped Harry as he tried to scratch his wrists. He was not fond of lace cuffs, and was beginning to understand why Ron had hated his dress robes in the fourth year.

"Will you two shut up?" Hermione said irritably, as she came in from the cloakroom with Ginny. The two boys both gaped in awe. Hermione was wearing a rich burgundy brocade dress with a scooped neck and her hair had been slicked back into an elaborate bun, while Ginny's dress was in blue, and though her hair was in a bun, several tendrils of it had been allowed to escape.

"Right," said Ron, snapping his mouth shut, "Shall we get ready to go in, then?"

But as he took Hermione's arm, Ginny could hear him murmur something to her, and she laughed delightedly. Harry sighed and held out his arm for Ginny.

"My Lady?"

"My Lord," she smiled, accepting, and continued, "You know, you'll be fine. I'll guide you through it, no problem. Sophia and I helped you all with the dance steps and etiquette this afternoon."

"I know," he told her, "I'm just nervous, that's all. This seems like the perfect way to blow our cover."

She looked at him anxiously. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

"What?" he said, surprised, and then, "No! I'm not angry with you...just nervous, like I said."

"As I said," Hermione corrected absentmindedly from behind him.

"As I said," Harry repeated dutifully. "I can't believe I'm supposed to be the brother to such a grammar-freak."

"Hey," said Ron, "I'm supposed to be her fiancé."

"Oh, both of you shut up," said Hermione, "There's no other way you'd be able to be here, given the social conventions involved. Why else would members of the unmarried male species be allowed to stay in the same house--or travel!--with an unmarried female? You'd have to be blood related, so there you are. And I am not a grammar-freak."

"Um...'Mione?" Ron said timidly, "Sorry, but you kind of are."

"I am not!" She looked at Ginny for support, but the red-head shook her head, laughing.

"'Fraid so."

"Oh!"

This had the result that when their names were called out by the herald a few seconds later, Hermione was pale with indignation and swept very regally indeed down the carpet to the Doge.

After the introduction (which wasn't nearly as scary as Harry had thought it might be), they began to mingle with the crowd. Ginny was instantly whisked away to dance, and Harry had to subdue his sudden pang of jealously rather ruthlessly. After a few minutes, Hermione was approached by a rather tipsy middle aged man, and it was only because Sophia was standing behind his back nodding vigorously at her that she tentatively accepted. Thus, Ron and Harry found themselves standing alone.

"Isn't she supposed to be my fiancée?" Ron asked Sophia, puzzled. "Shouldn't I be challenging him to a duel or something?"

She giggled. "No, silly. This is her introduction--he is the most important person here--well, besides the Doge--and once he dances with her, she's accepted."

"Oh." He digested this. "Well, I still don't like it."

"That's okay," she smiled. "It'll all be over in a few minutes--with him, anyway."

Ron blanched. "What d'ye mean, 'with him, anyway'?"

"Well, I don't know if you'd noticed, but your girlfriend's very pretty--"

"Thank you, I had," Ron muttered.

"--and I'm sure she'll be surrounded by admirers once the door's been opened by Lord di Brindisi over there." She blinked up at him. "Unless, of course, you get there first."

Ron turned an interesting sequence of colors and then, when the song ended and Hermione was surrounded by young men, strode off towards her, muttering something about the ridiculous situation of having to fight for a girl when you already had her. Sophia laughed, and turned to Harry.

"You, on the other hand, being a male, are supposed to ask one of us lovely females to dance--probably Catherine, as she's the most popular of us all. Then any one of us will dance with you."

"Which one's Catherine?" Harry asked, searching the crowd with his eyes.

"The one that looks as if she's got a nasty smell under her nose."

"Oh," said Harry, getting a bad feeling about this. "Look, I'd rather just dance with you."

Sophia's eyebrows rose. "Not your best choice for a first court dance. You'd do better with Bea--oh, I'm sorry, Ginny."

"I don't care. I'm more comfortable with you, and you'll be able to help me if I get lost with the dance. And Ginny's...busy," he said, trying to keep his expression light.

"Ah. I see. Well, in that case, I would be delighted to dance with you, Lord de Poter. Your Italian is excellent for a Frenchman." She grinned up at him as they walked onto the dance floor and began to dance.

"Well, I've been taking lessons."

"Have you? Did Beatrice help, while you were at school together?"

"Um, yeah, that's it," he said unconvincingly, then laughed. "God, I'm really no good at this undercover stuff, am I?"

She laughed back at him. "Not really, no. But I'm sure you'll learn."

They continued dancing. Sophia was a good dancer, and she managed to keep Harry on track most of the time. Hermione and Ron passed them, Hermione managing to keep Ron's feet going to the beat for the most part, and Ron glowering at anyone who attempted to cut in. Ginny also passed them, dancing with a blond-haired young man whose horsey laughter echoed off of the high-vaulted ceilings. Harry watched them sourly.

"You know," Sophia said perceptively, "you should ask her to dance."

"Yeah," said Harry, deliberately misinterpreting, "I guess it wouldn't do to dance every dance with you. People might think we were engaged or something."

Sophia glared at him. "You know perfectly well that isn't what I meant. You're obviously in love with her, and she's in love with you, so why don't you just go dance with her? You won't get a chance like this in your time--extraordinary sixteenth century balls don't happen very often there, I gather, and I suppose this is a very romantic setting--though it looks pretty normal to me," she added airily as she took in her surroundings and Harry gaped at the few dozen bombshells that she'd just dropped.

"Uh--excuse me? Love, her, me, dance, romantic--what are you saying?"

She looked at him with exaggerated patience, as if she were talking to a brain-damaged three-year-old. "You--love--her. Correct?"

"Um...yeah, I guess." Lord. That sounded strange out loud. Scarcely the ringing declaration he'd intended.

"Right. Sound a little more confident when you say that, or she'll never buy it. And she loves you."

"No she doesn't." He was sure.

Sophia sighed, exasperated. "Oh, for God's sake don't turn this into an is-not-is-too session. She loves you. She told me. Plus, I can see it. She never looked as happy in the three months I knew her until she saw you tumble into my chamber the other day. So stop being a dolt and go ask her to dance!"

Reeling from this new information, Harry was taking a little while to put it together. "Do you really think she does?"

Sophia closed her eyes. "Madonna, grant me patience. No, I've just been saying this the past ten minutes to torture you. I'm a wicked emotional sadist, and you're my poor, entrapped prey."

"All right, all right, no need to get all worked up." He took a deep breath, and looked across the room at Ginny, who was disappearing into the crowd once again. "Okay. I'm going."

"Hurray! The lad's come to his senses at last," Sophia directed at him for a parting shot, and then walked, bereft of a dance partner, back to her spot at the sidelines.

Ginny, feeling flushed and excited and desperately needing fresh air, stumbled out on the balcony. Hanging down over the railing, she sucked the cold, clear air into her lungs, and began to laugh. Everything was okay, she'd be going home soon, and she might be able to make it up with Mario as well. He wasn't such a bad sort, after all.

"Hey, Gin," said a voice, softly. She smiled at the sound of it, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, and turned to greet him.

"Hi, Harry. Enjoying the ball?"

He laughed. "It's not as bad as I thought. But, um, Ginny--"

"Yes?" For some reason, she was finding it difficult to breathe.

"I--listen, you know how we've been spending a lot of time together recently, because of Ron and Hermione?" He wasn't looking at her, and had suddenly become intensely interested in his lace cuff.

"Yes..." Oh, God. This was it. He was going to tell her that he knew about her pathetic crush and he wanted nothing to do with her...Stop it, she scolded herself, Harry would never be that mean.

"Well, um--I just wanted to tell you that I--that is, I think I'd call you one of my best friends now."

"Yes?" Then, so that he wouldn't think that was the only word in her vocabulary, "Me too. I mean, you're one of my best friends, too."

"And I guess I got to thinking," Oh God, here it comes, "that maybe...maybe we could be...more than just best friends?"

"I understand completely," she was already saying, before what he said caught up to her. "What?"

He looked terrified. "I mean, I understand if you don't want to go out with me, I can be a real ass sometimes, like these past few days, I really didn't mean to be so evil," he babbled. Ginny gently reached out and took the cuff from between his fingers.

"You'll rip it," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

"I--oh. Sorry."

"No, I--Harry, I feel the same way."

"I'll go--wait, what?"

She could feel herself grinning foolishly. "I feel the same way. I want to be...more than best friends."

He grinned back, equally foolishly. "Well."

"Well."

"Good."

"Good."

They both began, unaccountably, to laugh, both feeling as though they could have floated on air had they tried. After a few minutes, Ginny dried her eyes, still chuckling.

"What next?"

"Will you, Lady Virginia d'Oiseau," she giggled at the name, "grant me this dance?"

"Of course, Lord de Poter," she said, taking his arm demurely, "I should be delighted." And they walked onto the dance floor.

Chapter Three:

Hermione watched interestedly as Harry danced yet one more dance with Ginny. "Harry's dancing with Ginny," she remarked to Ron, who replied, "About bloody time." She pulled back so that she could see his face, grinning delightedly.

"You don't mind?"

He looked incredulous. "What are you, kidding? It's what she wants, after all--and what he wants. Why could I get angry at something that makes them both so happy?"

She hugged him. "I love you." He looked surprised, but gratified.

"He just better not hurt her, that's all." Then he got a confused look on his face. She better not hurt him, either." This time it was his turn to pull away so that he could see her face. "You're the smart one--whose feelings take priority in this kind of situation, your little sister or your best friend?"

She giggled. "How about both?" He thought about this for a moment.

"Okay."

They were beginning to dance again, when Hermione felt a wave of dizziness pass over her, and she had to lean on him until it passed.

"'Mione?" The concern in his voice was evident.

"I'm fine--just tired. I'm still not up to big things, we'll have to wait at least a few days until we can leave."

"That's okay--as long as it takes. Maybe we should sit down."

"Yeah, maybe." He led her over to a chair, and hovered protectively as she sat.

She turned her eyes on him. "Ron. I'll be fine, I'm not made of glass. Go away."

"'Mione!" He was hurt, she could tell.

"I'm just--I'm just tired, Ron. I need to sit down for awhile, that's all. Go dance with Sophia, she looks lonely." She scowled at him until he left, and then collapsed against the chair. The words she'd read in that book this summer kept coming back to her--what if she died before she got the rest of them home? What if she didn't make it, and the others were trapped in the past for the rest of their lives--and to make matters worse, in a place where there was about to be a major war? She'd never forgive herself--she just had to hold on. Just long enough to get them home, and then she'd rest, then she'd let go. She was so tired...

She was in a dream, she was dancing with Harry and Harry was attracted to her, and maybe, maybe they were really in love, and she felt as though she could burst with happiness. True, this wasn't really the kind of dancing she'd always dreamed of--it was very formal, stylized, and they rarely touched, but it was still dancing, it was still with Harry, they were still moving together.

She laughed and looked at him quickly.

"Yeah," he said, grinning, "I know what you mean. I feel pretty much the same way."

When the dance was over, they walked over to the balcony to get some fresh air, but on the way, Ginny felt her someone's shoe sink into her toe, and she yelped.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Beatrice," said Catherine smoothly, "I really am the clod tonight. But you understand."

Grrr. Grrr. Grrrrrrrr. "Of course, Catherine," Ginny said lightly.

"And who," looking Harry up and down, "is this?"

Harry smiled. "The Lord de Poter. And you are?"

Miffed, she said, "Lady Catherine di Casabianca." She stood there for a few minutes, obviously waiting for Harry to ask her to dance, but he did no such thing. Instead, he merely smiled, said, "Charmed. Please do excuse us," and swept Ginny away.

Catherine could barely contain her anger; Ginny could barely contain her glee.

But across the room, a pair of jealous green eyes were watching...

The next morning, Ginny walked into her "father's" study to give him the usual morning kiss. She was feeling unusually giddy, so when she saw Mario in the study, she was falling from a great height.

"M-Mario?" she said weakly.

"Beatrice," her father smiled, "I have good news. I have arranged for you to be affianced to Lord di Bari."

"What?" It was barely a whisper, and Lord di Carapaccio sailed blithely on.

"He asked for your hand a few days ago, and I had no reason to refuse him. He was going to tell you at the ball last night, but felt that perhaps it was the wrong time." His smile was unchanged, as wide as ever, but she knew him, and she knew that behind that smile his beady black eyes were watching her closely, watching to see what she did. She didn't care.

"Father--I need to tell you, Lord de Poter--"

"Is a spy and will be treated as such," he said calmly.

She felt as though she'd been dealt a blow to the gut. "What?"

"He is a foreigner, and chose a cunning disguise, along with his traveling companions. I had my suspicions, but Lord di Bari helped me with his identification as well. He found him in my study last night after the ball."

"What was Lord di Bari doing here after the ball?" she whispered, her mouth gone dry, and her "father" laughed, a cruel sound.

"Why, he was coming to see me, of course. To talk about the engagement. Why--"

She cut him off. "Where is Lord de Poter now? And his companions?"

He looked at her coldly. "I have sent for the police. They will be here any minute to apprehend the crooks." Without waiting to hear more, she turned and fled out of the room. Waking Harry, she dragged him and Ron into Hermione's room, and shook her.

"'Mione, wake up!"

"Ginny--what's going on?" Harry yawned, rubbing his head. Ron said nothing, simply watched Hermione anxiously, who came out of sleep slowly.

"Wh--wha's goin' on?" she mumbled.

"Lord di Carapaccio has called the police, he's going to have you arrested as spies. We have to leave, now!"

"Hang on," interjected Ron, "I really don't think 'Mione's up to it--"

"Oh, don't be so overprotective, Ron, of course I'm up to it," she snapped, coming fully awake. "Just give me a moment to prepare."

"But--" he said confusedly, "Last night, you said--"

Her face softened. "I know what I said, okay? Just trust me."

She sat there in the bed, clearing her mind completely, ignoring the circle of anxious faces staring at her, ignoring the noises coming from downstairs. And suddenly, she saw it: the Temporal, sitting on the bedpost in front of her, looking at her inquisitively.

"Well?" he said.

"One more trip," she said breathlessly, "for all of us. To August 26th, 1997, the Burrow in England. That's it. I won't bother you again."

He laughed. "No."

Her eyes widened. "Please. You don't understand--it's important."

He eyed her appraisingly. "How important?"

She cast around desperately. "Very important. It's the lives of my best friends, the people I love--and we might be able to save some people from our time, as well. And save some of your people from being held captive by Lord Voldemort." The Temporal's face darkened at the name, but did not give way.

"What would you give?"

She'd known this would happen, that this would be the final result. She closed her eyes. "Whatever I have to."

"Very well."

She just managed to gasp out, "It's coming," to the others, before the whirling started again. She felt the strength pour out of her into the Temporal, felt the others being transported along with them, and then slowly consciousness left her as her life force gradually drained away--she could always pull back, she knew, she could always deny it, but if she did that, then she would leave them all caught between times, so that was no choice at all, really--and the last thing she recognized before she passed out was Mrs. Weasley's worried, yet relieved, face.


	7. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** Don't own a damn thing.

**EPILOGUE**

Somewhere, someone was hammering a nail in. Repeatedly. They must be missing the nail quite a bit, because the hammering went on for far longer than was strictly necessary if they were a good carpenter. She made up her mind that she would get up and go tell them to stop making such a racket and let her sleep, but when she opened her eyes to the glaring white of the hospital wing, she decided that maybe she'd rather lie there for awhile. At her groan, however, a group of people sitting in chairs near the wall all shot out of their seats.

The first face she saw staring down at her was Ron's, looking both furious and relieved at the same time.

"You twit," he said affectionately, "Why didn't you tell us it was that dangerous?"

"Well," she managed to get out, "You'd never have let me carry on, would you?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, then," she said, and promptly passed out again.

When she came round again, her headache had subsided somewhat, and she was able to smile at Professor Dumbledore. "How long have I been asleep?"

"You were in a coma for three weeks," he said solemnly.

She sat straight up, and immediately regretted it. "Three weeks! I've missed the beginning of school!"

"Lie down, Miss Granger," he told her, "We have made allowances, and you will be able to catch up on the work. The Deputy Head Girl, Padma Patil, is not quite as good as we had anticipated you would be," here he winced, "but you will be able to take on that mantle of responsibility by the time you are fully recovered."

She had to ask. "Um...sir?"

"Yes?"

"Why did I...?"

"Why did you survive?"

"Well, yes, sir."

"That," he said, polishing his glasses, "is a very interesting question. I presume that it is because the Temporal you were working with decided that he did not want the price that he had initially demanded."

She was confused. "Why was that, sir?"

He smiled. "He probably took a liking to you."

As her eyebrows shot up into her hair, he continued, "You will be moved to the school infirmary from this hospital in a few days, and will have to remain in the infirmary for a week. After that, you may begin to move around and resume your schooling."

Her expression stricken, she protested, "A whole week! I'll fall even more behind! I'll be a month behind! And we've got the N.E.W.T.s this year!"

He chuckled. "I'm sure, Miss Granger, that you'll make it up."

Arriving at the school infirmary had been like a homecoming. While her friends had been allowed to visit the hospital via Floo Powder over weekends, they had yet to see her while she was awake and coherent. Ron's greeting was, to understate it, exuberant. Harry's and Ginny's were only shades less so, and Madam Pomfrey had to take a very stern line with the visitors to prevent the infirmary from turning into a party zone. No matter how she pleaded with him, Ron stolidly refused to bring her homework to do.

"Look," she said, "I've got to get caught up."

"Not yet, you don't," he said implacably, and Harry hid a grin.

"Ron," she said, "I'm going to get angry in a minute."

"Okay," he agreed, and she turned to Harry in mute supplication.

"Oh no, you're on your own," he said, smiling. "I'm too happy you're alive to risk you on overexerting yourself now. You need to take better care of yourself, 'Mione."

"Exactly," Ron growled. Harry wasn't fooled by his gruff demeanor, however--the weeks that Hermione had been in a coma, he'd walked around school like a ghost, and was off to the hospital every Friday afternoon like a shot. Even Quidditch practice had been postponed.

"So," Hermione said, "Did Professor Dumbledore get back from meeting with the leader of the Temporals, yet?"

"Yeah," Harry grinned, "And they've agreed to help stop any of Voldemort's time travelers from changing history or anything. They want to get their people back from slavery as much as we want to stop him--so, common enemy, common cause."

"Good," she smiled, "I'm glad some good came of our little junket into time."

"Oh," Harry said softly, watching Ginny's face as she looked out of the window, "I think plenty good came out of it."

Ron made a face at Harry. "Sop."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"That is to say--well, I should probably get to class, now, shouldn't I?"

"Probably," she laughed. "You too, Harry, Ginny. I'll see you later." They ignored her parting, "Bring me homework!"

"I had a dream last night," Harry said quietly.

Ginny turned to look at him sharply. "About what?"

"Voldemort. I dreamt...never mind."

"No, tell me."

Reluctantly, "I dreamt that he killed everyone. All of you. It was horrible."

She gave him a wry smile.

"I've had that dream too, I think."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. But I guess we'll just have to make sure it never happens."

"Yeah," he said quietly, fingering his scar, "I guess we will."

A/N (finally): It's over! manic tap dance of glee First and foremost, an abundance of thanks to my two wonderful beta readers, both the official (Zsenya) and the unofficial (my mother, who hates fanfiction but proofread this anyway). Secondly, thanks to everyone who's reviewed and read the story and is bothering to read this right now. Thirdly, I need opinions--to write this, I sketched out an idea of what would happen in the fifth and sixth years (this one is seventh year). For those of you wondering about Prof. Silverleaf and the Elementals, she's around in my sixth year prequel that I used to have plotted out in my head--my question to all of you is, if I were to write that story (bearing in mind that it might take a while), would you be interested in reading it? Once again, thanks for reading!


End file.
